


The Spell (Or the One with the Night at the Museum)

by Detochkina



Series: Mr & Mr Smith [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Rivals, Romance, Spies & Secret Agents, Technology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3158396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Merlin Emrys, an agent of the Agency of Magic,  is sent on a mission to Las Vegas to secure a powerful artifact, the last thing he expects is a shotgun marriage to the man of his dreams, but that's exactly what happens. Call it serendipity.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>As professional and private lives intersect, Merlin is determined to hold on to both his secret identity and his relationship with his new husband, Arthur. But keeping secrets has a price, especially when Arthur has omissions of his own.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Of course, they muck it all up. Spectacularly.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spell (Or the One with the Night at the Museum)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Candymacaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/gifts).



> This is Part 3 of the series.  
> It's highly advised that you read the ["The Bet"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2978594) and ["The Serum"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108422) of this series if you'd like to keep up with what's going on. Otherwise, enjoy the adventure and boys being besotted idiots.  
> Again, my big thanks go to my lovely, amazing [Candymacaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/works) for the [brilliant art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902664) for this story. You are so talented, kind, funny, easygoing, it's a JOY to have your support as a friend and as an artist!  
> Please make sure to check Candy's art for this part of the story and leave well-deserved love; more will be added as the story progresses, and every piece is amazing!  
> My betas [Daroh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh/works) and [M](https://twitter.com/EditsandSnark), thank you as always, for being with me through this journey, for your patience and support! You're very precious to me.  
>  **Disclaimer:** No infringement intended. The characters are not mine.

“Of course I didn’t ask him, E! How could I? I pretended I’ve never heard of such a name before!” Merlin groans, stopping his pacing in the living room of Gwaine’s flat. “But what if it _is_ her? I am so fucked.” He goes back to wearing down a track on the rug.

“Yes, for fucking Morgana's little brother,” Gwaine supplies helpfully from the couch and with a very serious face. “Wait until she finds out.”

Merlin glares at Gwaine, already regretting the decision to come to his friends for advice. “You’re talking about him like he’s fifteen.”

“Do you even know how old he is?” Gwaine inquires, his brows playing a little _wiggle-wiggle_ on his forehead as he asks.

Merlin crosses his arms on his chest. “That’s not a trick a question, is it? You ran a file on Arthur, didn’t you? You bastards.”

Gwaine and Elena glance at each other and dart their eyes away. Gwaine starts whistling, sporting an obscenely innocent expression.

“Oh my god, you totally did! I can’t believe you tossers,” Merlin exclaims, throwing his hands up. “You take forever to do anything I ask. _Anything!_ And the one thing I specifically asked you _not_ do, you went ahead and did behind my back?”

His friends have the decency to look somewhat guilty, though Merlin knows it’s all a lie. He bloody taught them most tricks they know as agents… except none of them are meant to jeopardise serious relationships.

“That’s it,” he says, decisively cutting the air with the edge of his palm. “You’re officially grounded. To make it absolutely clear: I don’t care which one of you did it, it applies to both of you, since lately, you’re thick as thieves.” He makes a point of glaring at each of his friends in turn.

Gwaine tosses back his hair with a snort. “What are you going to do, daisy? _Suspend_ us?”

Merlin narrows his eyes. “You would want that, wouldn’t you? So instead of doing very little work, you’d do nothing? Keep dreaming.”

Elena snickers. “Can’t stop him from trying.”

“Oh, I can,” Merlin says menacingly. “So, here it is. You plonkers are _un_ invited from tonight’s dinner.”

“What?!” his wanker friends exclaim at the same time.

“No, M, you can’t--”

“--Oh, come on, daisy.”

“But we have to meet him!”

“--We only poked around a little!"

They talk over each other, looking comically devastated, like children who’ve just been told they can’t go to the amusement park and ride their favourite rides.

“I always thought it was a bad idea for Arthur to mingle with the likes of you,” Merlin insists, interrupting their babbling and desperately trying to show that he means business. “I’ll let Arthur know the dinner’s cancelled. He actually listens to me, unlike you, and does what I say when I say it.”

Gwaine shuts his mouth with an audible snap. Elena shuts up, but her mouth stays open. The silence stretching between them as everyone’s digesting what Merlin just said is turning frightening, especially when Gwaine starts grinning like he’s just won a million pounds and his life is officially complete.

“Did you just say what I thought you just said?” Gwaine asks slowly, like he can’t believe his luck and is afraid to spook it; Merlin starts wistfully imagining how brilliant it would be if he could magic himself far away from here.

“No?” he croaks, and changes his mind. “I mean, yes... I said what I said!”

Gwaine looks at Elena with _meaning_ , and Merlin realises that there’s no right answer; he’s doomed either way, judging by the shit-eating grins spreading on his friends’ faces, and even if there _were_ a spell for space travel, there’s not enough magic in the world to dig him out of this pit he’s got himself into.

And here it comes. 

“ _Mer_ lin,” Elena drawls as she takes a step towards him. “Are you saying that you’re some sort of a BAMF in your relationship with Arthur? Like a _dominator_?”

“What?” Merlin goggles at her. “That’s not even a word, you tart.”

“What El is asking here, stud,” Gwaine steps to Elena’s side -- to form a united front against him, obviously. “Does your Arthur wear your _collar_?”

“Oh my god, could you please just _fuck the fuck off_!” Merlin demands, regretting every word he’s ever said in the presence of these savages. He wishes mournfully that he had followed through with his donkey threat before. “No! I wasn’t saying anything like that! I was just…” He claps his hands to his head, shaking it. “Why would you even ask something like that? I don’t stick my nose in your private lives, do I? You awful, awful people.”

He drops his hands, sighing, maybe a little too dramatically, but it’s totally warranted in this situation, Merlin’s convinced. “I can’t have friends like this. This is impossible,” he mutters and looks at them. “Why do you hate me?”

“Aww,” Elena says, walking up to him to hug him. “M, you’re brilliant, really. We obviously were just kidding.”

“Kind of,” Gwaine says under his breath.

“Gwaine,” Elena warns him. “Don’t you see our big guy is very stressed?”

“No,” Merlin says against her shoulder, miserable. “I’m not stressed. I’m utterly fucked. And you are terrible friends. Why can't I ask you for simple advice without your taking the piss?”

“All right,” Elena says and steps back, rubbing his arms, sensing as usual when it’s time to stop messing with him and take it down a notch. “Sorry, M. You’ve been way too tense lately, you know what I mean? We want you to relax a bit.”

Gwaine nods with an agreeing hum and scratches his knee. “There are tons of Morganas in London, mate. It can’t be our Morgana. Their surnames don’t match and they look nothing alike. Honestly? I can’t even imagine her having a family. She probably just hatched out of an egg or something, already in her red lipstick, suit and stilettos.”

They all stop for a moment, picturing that, and burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, I will never be able to look at her again,” Elena complains, “Thanks to you.”

“What?” Gwaine shrugs, grinning. “You believe it too.”

“Guys, come on, I’m still freaking out here,” Merlin whines, and goes back to his pacing routine.

“I can’t tell you to stop overthinking it, because with you it’s impossible,” Elena says. “You probably already have like a gazillion different possibilities whether it's her or not calculated in your head, with different outcomes.”

“So? I can’t help it,” Merlin argues and points out, “like you can’t help being twits.”

“Everyone is, compared to you,” Gwaine agrees easily. “When you get like this, we have nothing else to do but just sit here and look pretty, right, El? And we like it that way.”

Merlin sighs wistfully. “That's you, but Arthur is smart _and_ he’s pretty. ...”

Elena lets out a small, cooing sound, looking at him with her soft, dewy eyes. “Oh dear...” She reaches for his hand. “Listen to me. You're all of those things. And more. You’re _our_ BAMF Merlin, and for what it’s worth, I’d wear a collar for you every day of the week.”

Gwaine raises his hand, smacking his lips. “You can sign me up, too.”

“I seriously, seriously need for you to never bring up this topic again,” Merlin wishes earnestly.

“But that’s asking the impossible,” Gwaine says, slapping his knees. “You’re stuck with us and our puns.”

“Your Arthur sounds like a good bloke, Merlin,” Elena says. “I mean it. But I just have a feeling this can’t end well. You have too many secrets.”

Merlin hangs his head. “It’s not Arthur’s fault that I’m a coward.”

“Goodness, no!” Elena protests. “The problem is that no matter how you slice it, you’re married to your job first. And unless you find a way to work that out with Arthur… I don’t know _how_ ,” she admits at Merlin’s raised brow. “If you didn’t have to hide from your Arthur who you are, then -- maybe. ”

“Not everyone can have what you have,” Merlin says quietly.

“Me?” Elena asks, puzzled.

“I mean you and this plonker here.” He gestures at Gwaine.

“Oh, we’re just…”

“We’re not really…”

They talk at the same time and look at each other with identical what-did-you-say expressions. They even frown in unison. Elena bites her lip and starts picking at the hem of her sleeve. Gwaine looks away.

Merlin sighs, feeling something like a pang of resentment poke him inside. “Whatever, guys, but I think you know what I mean. Not everyone can have both worlds. You’re lucky.”

After a short but heavy silence, Elena asks, “What are you going to do, M?”

She walks to the couch and lowers herself next to Gwaine, and they immediately stick their shoulders and elbows together, like two magnets, and just at the sight of that, Merlin’s resentment grows bigger, pushing against his heart. If Elena’s right, if his stupid _calculations_ are anywhere near correct, very soon he’ll be alone and miserable again, and he has no idea how he’ll be able to handle constantly being around two people in love who can be together without making painful personal sacrifices or pretending to be someone else all their lives.

Merlin runs a hand through his hair, grimacing. “I need to go back to the office for a bit, see what we’ve recovered from Mordred’s place, and to talk to Gaius.”  He glances at the clock on the wall. “He’s expecting me in an hour.”

“It’s fucking Saturday, M,” Gwaine mutters. “Give it a rest.”

“I can’t,” Merlin says firmly. “I need to make sure Mordred’s case doesn’t become another statistic. I also want to know Morgana’s planning on getting the second piece of the Triskelion out of the Bureau’s paws. And we still haven’t found the third.”

His teammates nod.

“And what about Arthur?” Elena asks, flipping out her mobile and unlocking it. “Are we still meeting him tonight? Or are you going to continue being a child about it?”

Merlin scowls. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea right now. Let me figure it out about Morgana first.”

“Yeah, daytime drama! _Is she or isn’t she a sister_? We’ll be at the edge of our seats here,” Gwaine promises, clicking his tongue and giving Merlin two thumbs up. “Oh, by the way! Do I have to do laundry today?” He pulls his t-shirt to his nose and sniffs it. “Eh, still okay. Does it still smell okay to you, El?”

Elena leans in for a sniff, frowning in concentration. After her, Gwaine takes one more pass at the shirt-sniffing test. They look at each with equally pensive expressions, then both shrug and say in unison, “Eh.”

“Oh my god,” Merlin says, “You two are disgusting. For more reasons than one. Were you going to wear that disaster to the bloody dinner? I’d have appreciated it if you showed up to meet my husband for the first time in something more appropriate than a ‘Buy This Man a Beer’ t-shirt.”

“ _My_ _husband_ ,” Gwaine mouths to Elena, sending her into giggles. “You’ve changed, mate,” he declares to Merlin, arranging his expression into one of deep disapproval.

Merlin is going to say something snarky, he totally is--

“But in case you were wondering, Arthur’s file is very clean,” Elena announces, looking down at her mobile again. “And everything checked out. Thirty-two years old. Was raised by a single father. Straight-A student. Banking degree. Although he studied in some small school abroad. He was engaged once. Some girl named Mithian.” Elena glances at Merlin with a raised brow. “Maybe you should ask him about that.”

An irritation flares in Merlin’s chest. “That’s enough,” he snaps. “As you can see, no jailbait here. Moving on.”

“No sister mentioned, though,” Gwaine pipes up, showing a great sense of timing as usual, raising Elena’s hand in his to show Merlin the screen.

Merlin doesn’t care to check it. “Well, _Arthur_ says he has one and he wants me to meet her. And none of you are invited to that affair, thankfully. And that’s that.” 

As it turns out, he spoke too soon.

 

“Merlin, just look at this beauty!” Gaius exclaims as soon as he sees Merlin walking into the lab.

Gaius is studying something through the eyepiece of the device that the rest of the world would assume is a microscope, but in reality, it's been redesigned, reconfigured, and then enhanced with magic by Merlin to such a degree that calling it that now would insult him. Not only does this device allow the viewer to see details that are invisible to the naked eye, it also detects the elements of magic and the level of magical power contained by the object.

“What is it?” Merlin asks.

“A Crystal of Neahtid,” Gaius murmurs reverently, not lifting his head. “The one that scriptures claim holds the secret of time itself.”

“Ah, that’s where Mordred has gotten the idea about the time travel.”

“Yes, yes,” Gaius mumbles, adjusting a small piece of a subtly-shimmering crystal on the plate of the device and going back to studying it. “Although, that’s not even close to what it truly does. And Mordred didn't know the spell to activate it.”

“What does it do?” Merlin taps Gaius’s shoulder to move, but his mentor just waves him off with a disgruntled noise.

“It speaks of the past, conveys the present, and shows the future," he answers.

“Ha. Basically, Morgana can go home now,” Merlin deadpans.

Gaius lifts his head to look at him, his ruffled white, bushy eyebrow flying into the creases of his forehead in outrage. “Morgana's power is _intelligent_. It’s unique and invaluable, my boy.”

Merlin snorts. “Are you saying that this is just a dumb rock?”

Gaius gazes at Merlin with disapproval. “No, I’m not saying that at all. No magic is dumb. I’m saying that Morgana can choose the ways to use her power. She’s responsible for her actions. You can’t say that about this artifact, can you?”

“But that’s even worse, isn’t it?” Merlin says, getting agitated. “What have I been doing lately? Chasing people around the world who want nothing but to take advantage of magic. And some of them, like Mordred, don’t even properly know what to do with it.”

“Then maybe we're doing it wrong. Maybe instead of reacting negatively to anyone who’s interested in magic, we should see how we can educate them and empower them to make better choices."

"Gaius, don't start," Merlin protests.

Gaius straightens with a grunt and rubs his lower back. “Why do I always forget to sit down?” he mutters in admonishment to himself. "I've been thinking about it a lot, my boy, and I’ve been talking to Morgana." He turns to Merlin. "I’m afraid we’ve been doing magic a disservice by rushing to take it out of people’s hands and out of sight. Not every single person on this planet is malicious, and a lot of that comes from just arrogance. We’re all guilty of it at one point or another.”

Merlin doesn’t know what to say.

He picks up the notebook from the desk next to the device. It’s more like a scrapbook with pictures and detailed descriptions. "Mordred's?"

Gaius nods.

“Speaking of crystals,” Merlin says, sifting through the book, glad to change the topic, and taps on the picture. “May I see the Blood Crystal? I’ve been fascinated with the stories about it since I was a kid.”

“Ah, yes. There’s no Blood Crystal in Mordred’s collection, just notes about it. Read below.” Gaius points to the writing below the drawing, done in the smallest chicken scratch possible. 

Merlin scans the information as Gaius continues to talk.

“His interest piqued when his mother passed away and he found old records she’d kept among her things. Apparently, they’ve been in the family for decades. The entries in the records were essentially a map to what he thought were treasures hidden all over Europe. In the walls of old buildings, cemeteries, caves. It’s a frustrating and often futile search, as you probably can understand, but Mordred has been relentless for the past several years and stopped at nothing. There’s an event documented by him, quite vividly, about digging out an old grave as he followed the directions from one of the records. That's how he came to own the other piece of Triskelion.”

Merlin shudders. “No wonder he’s bonkers,” he comments under his nose.

“I’d call it dedication and a strong sense of curiosity,” Gaius disagrees. “That’s commendable. You will see that he was very meticulous in his hunt. The notes he’s been writing himself are spectacular.”

“Do you know how he's doing, Gaius?”

“He’s under observation; I checked on him this morning. He's used to living in his own bubble and he never sought out help. With proper care Mordered will be all right, Merlin, don’t worry -- I'm making sure of that. Also, I found he has a knack for connecting the dots while doing research on seemingly-unrelated pieces of information, and I think we could use him in the future.”

Merlin smiles. “Glad to hear that. Is there any more information on the Triskelion? Any explanation of its origin, who broke it into pieces, why? Where's the last piece?” He looks down at the notes again.

"No, nothing. Just Mordred’s observation that there was some kind of a message on the Triskelion when it was a whole. And since it was broken, he didn’t believe there would be any value to look for the missing pieces."

"Yes, that's what he told me."

“His next expedition was supposed to be after the Blood Crystal when he discovered the Crystal of Neahtid, and his obsession spiraled out of control. He decided he had to save Albion.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Merlin muses as he keeps reading through Mordred’s thoughts. “Something about his ancestors’ guilt, curses, and obligations here.”

Gaius hums. “Every family has those, and I wouldn’t be too rash to judge them. Especially if you look at the next page.”

“What’s there?” Merlin asks, thumbing the page, and frowns as he starts reading. He snaps his eyes at Gaius. “A tomb?”

Gaius flashes him a full-of-white-dentures smile. “Scared?”

Merlin scans the page again and grins back. “It’s like you don’t even know me, Gaius. When can I go?”

“Any time you like, my boy,” Gaius responds in an indulgent tone, like he knew this was going to happen all along and without the help of a foretelling artifact -- Merlin’s _that_ predictable.

Merlin pats his pockets and pulls out his mobile. “No time like the present. I’m going now.”

 

 ~

 

Arthur picks up on the third ring, which is unusual for him. Normally it’s either right away or he’s sent to the voicemail.

“Hi, baby.” Arthur sounds a little breathless.

“You sound very excited, dear,” Merlin teases by way of greeting.

“What?” Arthur laughs, then wheezes a little. “You arse. I’m not wanking.”

Merlin chuckles. “No crime in that. Where are you?”

“I’m in your flat still. Hanging out,” Arthur says innocently.

“Hanging out is great.” Merlin thinks he hears another voice in the background. “Arthur, who’s there talking?”

“No one,” Arthur denies quickly and the voice shuts up.

“Oh my god,” Merlin says, trying to sound appalled. “You cheater. You’re doing yoga, aren’t you? Without me!”

“Well, I need to work on my stamina and strength, which you’re supposed to benefit from.”

Merlin immediately imagines Arthur on the mat in a Downward Dog pose with his round, perky bum in the air, and then recalls their previous night and Arthur’s fit and willing body under his hands. A pleasant warmth starts to pool low in his belly, and he briefly considers stopping by home before he sets off on yet another mission. Regretfully, he can’t. He’s had too many setbacks to stall now.

“Admit it, Arthur,” he says instead, “that yoga instructor I’ve created is hella fit.”

“He’s fine, but I’ve seen fitter. What do you want?”

“You’re being rude.”

“Well, you’re interrupting.” Arthur’s voice drops lower. “Is everything okay?”

Merlin remembers the reason he’s calling and sobers up.

“There’s been a security system breach at one of our clients, and I’m being sent to troubleshoot,” he lies smoothly.

“I understand. Does it mean you won’t be home on time for our big dinner?” Arthur’s tone is more serious.

“No, I’m in Heathrow. My flight is in fifty minutes. I’m sorry, we’ll have to postpone the dinner.”

“That’s too bad. I was planning to cook your favourite polenta.”

Merlin’s heart aches a little at the wistful notes in Arthur’s voice. “I know. I’ll make it up to you.”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “I’ll make sure.” It’s light, but Merlin can tell that his partner’s upset. He knows Arthur was looking forward to meeting his friends, yet he sounds nothing but earnest when he says, “When you call Elena and Gwaine, send my regards. Call me when you’re back, okay, baby? Have a safe flight and kick some arses.”

It’s almost too easy with Arthur.

 

“El, what do you want to bet our boss here went on this little adventure just to get out of a dinner with us?” Gwaine asks in Merlin’s ear comm.

Elena doesn’t respond -- very smart of her.

“What are we looking for, M?” she asks, clacking on her keyboard.

“According to Mordred’s notes, the Blood Crystal has been hidden in a Getic tomb, not far from Razgrad. I believe this is it.”

“How do you like walking around a thousand-year-old ghost town this late in the evening?” Gwaine asks. “Isn’t it a bit spooky?”

Lighting up his path with magic, Merlin walks through a short passage into the central chamber of the tomb and looks around. There are murals painted and a row of figures of women carved in high relief on the walls, guarding secrets of ancient times.

“Nope,” Merlin answers. “I think it’s fascinating. Pictures don’t do this place justice, especially at night.”

“That’s because there are no other crazies who’d want to be there at this time,” Gwaine grumbles. “Could you please just do whatever it is quickly and get out? Your voice echoes there, and just that alone is giving me jibbies.”

“I don’t even know why I keep you around,” Merlin says, sitting down on the ground and checking Mordred’s and his own notes, already transferred into his mobile. “I’m more unnerved by the fact that there’s a carrier signal.”

“What does the Blood Crystal do?” Elena asks.

“It allows the person wearing it to take on the appearance of anyone whose blood the crystal touches,” Merlin says.

Gwaine whistles. “Nifty.” Then he adds, with more mischief, “So, _technically_ , I could take your appearance and go see your darling lover.”

“First of all, fuck off. You’re not going anywhere near him with your dirty paws. E, control your pet,” Merlin comments. “Second, may I remind you -- you’d need my blood.”

“Pffft, all for science,” Gwaine dismisses him. “I’ll probably only need a little. No more than a pint.”

“Dear lord,” Merlin addresses the ceiling full of detailed ornaments, “give me strength with this wanker…” He goes back to Mordred’s notes, reading, “10 female figures. Count the third from the west. Crack.”

He looks up. West. The row of 10 figures are presented on the wall. He walks up to the one specified in the directions and feels for the cracks around the statue carved in the wall.

“There are a lot of cracks -- how do I know which one?” he asks after fumbling around the figure for a good 15 minutes.

“Did you say ‘crack’?” Elena asks.

“Yes.”

“What language do you think the descriptions were written in originally?”

“Not sure. If not in English, it could be anything.”

“And if we assume local language…” Elena trails off. “Ah-ha! So, ‘crack’ or 'k-r-a-k' in Bulgarian means 'leg'.”

Within seconds, Merlin finds a ridge on the figure’s right knee and presses it. The mouth of the statue falls open in the form of a small ladle.

“G, get packing,” Merlin announces victoriously. “You’re no longer of use to me. As you can see, E and I manage just fine.”

Merlin’s mobile pings with a message. When he opens it, there’s Gwaine’s scowling selfie, with his middle finger thrusted into the camera. Laughing, Merlin climbs up to check inside the figure’s mouth.

It’s fucking _empty_.

Merlin leaves the tomb at almost dusk, his fingers bleeding from scraping the walls in search of the crystal all night; he’s covered in deep scratches and dust from head to toe. He’s leaving empty-handed.

“And there wasn’t a coin for you?” Elena asks. 

“No,” Merlin says in a hoarse, weak voice. He’s tired to the bone. The events of the last 48 hours have worn him down to the point of not being able to speak. “No coin.”

“Don’t you wish it was me now, having the crystal and pranking your Arthur?” Gwaine attempts to joke. It’s not funny.

“E, find me a place nearby to crash.” That’s all Merlin has the energy to ask for.

 

He wakes up in a small inn in the nearby town, to the divine smell of something fried and greasy coming from downstairs.

His mobile says he’s slept for 9 hours and it’s now late afternoon. “Shite.” He quickly dials the number. “E, I’m not dead in a ditch or on a prowl, I swear. Please do not report me to Morgana.”

Elena laughs on the other end of the line. “You’re too funny. Don’t worry, we all know how exhausted you must be after the past few days.”

Rubbing his face and wincing, Merlin goes into the loo and looks at himself in the mirror. “Oh bloody hell, you should see me now, E.”

There’s a deep scratch under his left eye, blood and dirt caked around it. His lips are dry and chapped, and his hair is a bird’s nest, full of dust. His pale arms and legs are no better: red, blue, and purple, with cuts and bruises.

“What happened?” Elena asks.

“I was a little upset last night, obviously -- wasn’t too careful while looking around the tomb.”

“We heard you. Please tell me you left no damage to the important historical and cultural landmark.”

“No, of course not… Seriously, E. But the entire place was saturated with magic, I couldn’t tell one thing from the other, couldn’t sense the artifact. Physical search was the only option.”

“I’m sorry. What’s your plan now?”

“I’m going to hang around. Talk to locals. Visit a library, local museums. I don’t know. I can’t go home yet.”

Elena sighs. “I understand. Do what you have to do.”

Merlin turns on the shower and begins whispering a spell, over and over, removing cuts and bruises from his skin, one by one.

 

~RZG~

 

Merlin’s at the Razgrad’s main library when his mobile pings with a message. He pushes away the thick tome he’s been reading (and taking pictures of, for which he had to bribe the librarian) for hours.

This visit hasn’t been entirely fruitless after all. Merlin’s collected enough material to bring home in hopes that maybe once he consolidates the information and speaks with Mordred again, he’ll be able to find what he needs to lead him to the missing Triskelion piece.

The message on the screen is from Arthur:

_\- Should I expect you back home soon?_

The text makes Merlin feel guilty. It’s already Wednesday, and he’s barely spoken with Arthur since leaving abruptly. Rubbing his brows, he sighs and types:

_\- Yeah, I’m coming back Friday._

He receives a response shortly. _Great! Plenty of time for a tux._

Merlin speed-dials Arthur, glancing at the librarian. She doesn’t seem to give a hoot, happily paid.

“What tux?”

“For this weekend. I told you, remember? I wanted you to meet my sister Morgana…” Arthur doesn’t sound pleased. “Hello to you too, baby.”

“Uh... yes, hello, Arthur, sorry. _What_. _Tux_?”

“Jesus, Merlin, please don’t tell me you didn’t listen to what I said last week. My sister’s girlfriend is having a charity dinner this Sunday, and we’re invited. It’ll be quite boring, I suspect, but your lovely face will light up the party.”

“Why does it sound like you’re kissing my arse right now?” Merlin asks, suspicious. He cannot recall a word of that conversation. Granted, he’d lost Arthur at “my sister _Morgana_ ”.

“Well, I would do so and more only if we were having this conversation _in person_ ,” Arthur suggests, not skipping a beat.

Merlin’s heart does make a quick flip just at the thought of Arthur’s mouth. He groans, saying before realising it, “Fuck, I miss you, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t reply for a long moment, and then tells him quietly, “I’ve spent most of this time in your flat, Merlin. I’m here now, waiting for you to come home.”

And if this is not a big enough confession, Merlin doesn’t know what is. He grins.

“So about that tux. I don’t even have one.”

“No worries.” Arthur cheers up. “I’ve checked your sizes, and the tux has been ordered. So all you need to do is show up at the tailor for a fitting. Will Saturday at ten o’clock work for you?”

“I’ll make it work,” Merlin promises sincerely. “Although I’m not going to lie, just the thought of big events, posh people, and meeting a member of your family is giving me the runs,” Merlin admits.

“It’ll be fine, I promise.”

Sure it will. 

 

“You look dashing,” Arthur murmurs to Merlin, giving his bow-tie a tug. He steps closer to kiss Merlin, the proximity and heat of his body sending shivers down Merlin’s spine.

“And you--” Merlin swallows, checking out Arthur’s broad shoulders in the fitted black jacket and matching black tie. “You look like you were born in this suit.”

Arthur’s lips quirk into a teasing smile. “Was that a compliment?” He presses a soft kiss to a corner of Merlin’s mouth.

“Arthur--” Merlin groans. “Please, I’m already nervous enough. I can’t be walking around cross-eyed and hard.”

“Again, the look is quite fetching on you, baby,” Arthur comments, dragging his lips to Merlin’s ear, and kisses him right beneath it, his hand snaking between them to rub Merlin’s crotch. Merlin moans, trying to stay quiet. They’re in the men’s room of a dinner venue, and someone can walk in on them any time.

“Oh god, that’s cruel,” he complains when Arthur drops his hand and takes a step back.

“Not as cruel as spending almost a week with your hella-fit yoga instructor, trying different poses and imagining you instead, with my cock buried inside you and your legs crossed behind my back.”

“Bloody hell, Arthur,” Merlin hisses, grappling for his tease of a partner, feeling like rutting his thigh, but Arthur twists away with a chortle.

“My task is complete here.”

“What?” Merlin blinks, shifting uncomfortably.

“You’ve been successfully distracted and no longer look like you’re about to puke,” Arthur says. “I can even see some colour in your lovely cheeks. Suits you.”

The reminder why they’re here (oh god, it can't be _Morgana_!) significantly deflates Merlin somewhat perked-up mood, and other things.

“You don’t understand,” he mumbles. “I’ve never been so nervous in my entire life.”

Arthur takes Merlin’s hand, weaving their fingers together. “I do understand. That’s why I invited Gwaine and Elena as well, so you don’t feel too out of place and alone.”

“What?” Merlin squeaks, 15 different scenarios playing in his head at once. None of them have a remotely positive outcome -- he’s triple-fucked tonight. “How did you…”

“Well, I had a lovely chat with Elena a few days ago. She stopped by your flat while I was there.”

“What?” Merlin thinks he’s losing his mind. "Elena? No. What did she say? Please tell me she didn’t threaten you or anything.”

“Oh, she did. My bollocks are on the line. The usual. But don't worry, I didn’t expect anything less from your friends.”

“I can’t believe her.” Merlin drags his hand through his hair, which he’d spent at least thirty minutes styling. “That’s it. She’s dead to me.”

“Sure.” Arthur laughs. “But after this dinner, all right? Let’s keep our game faces tonight. If we don’t and this event doesn’t go flawlessly, I’ll be bollocks-less because of my sister, who loves her girlfriend very much. Be aware, if that happens, I’m taking you down with me.”

“This is going to be a craptastic evening, I can already tell,” Merlin sighs, resigned.

“No it won’t, I’ve got you. We’ll be legends, remember?” Arthur’s voice is teasing, but his soft smile doesn’t match the tone, and that fills Merlin with immeasurable fondness.

“Well, we’ve definitely beat Brittney’s record,” he agrees. “And I’m rather attached to your bollocks already.”

Arthur laughs and tugs him to go. “That’s very good news.”

 

~LDN~

 

The solar room is large and bright and has a simple, classic decor with a gilded ceiling and French doors, leading to a lovely green garden. There’s a podium for a band or speeches, two dozen tables, and space in the middle for dancing. Each table is covered with white cloth, decorated with flowers, and has plates with the names of the guests, who, as it appears, like to be fashionably late, since there are not a lot of people in the room yet. It’s all very formal and just as Arthur promised -- quite boring, despite DJs trying to spice things up by playing some old classic that calls for the audience to “Come and Get Your Love, Baby.” So far, no one’s volunteered.

Merlin’s too jittery to be sitting down, and if his senses aren’t lying, Arthur’s no better, no matter how much swag he tries to put into his moves and smile. They’re standing by the wall, away from the main crowd of mingling people, both sipping on their second flute of champagne and occasionally checking the clock.

“Do you know any of these people?” Merlin asks through the corner of his mouth when Arthur smiles at yet another couple walking by.

Arthur shrugs. “I doubt anyone does. I assume these are the wallets invited by Morgana and Gwen for the charity’s sake. I’m not really in Morgana’s circles, and it’s a bit complicated with Gwen. But I couldn’t say no.”

Merlin has a feeling that “complicated” means a little more than just “I forgot to feed her cat while she was on a business trip”, but he doesn’t ask. Mainly because he’s being distracted by something else -- or rather, _someone_.

He can’t pretend he doesn’t notice his friends, frolicking about the floor, forever. Both Gwaine and Elena have walked by Merlin and Arthur twice already with mock-serious, we-are-posh-and-who-are-you faces, Gwaine carefully holding Elena -- stunning in a floor-length blue dress -- by her elbow. But this charade can’t last forever.

“Come on, mate,” Gwaine exclaims as they pass Merlin for the third time, and they stop.  “Introduce us already!”

Merlin gives both of them a long, measuring gaze. “Was I mistaken in assuming the reason you’re here is _because_ you have the right connections and don’t really need me?” he asks, voice dripping with contempt.

Elena mumbles something and begins digging a hole in the polished hardwood floor with the toe of her sparkly shoe.

“Oh no,” Merlin says, not buying this fake, sudden shyness. “Don’t act like your being here is an accident. I saw your names on the table.”

“We’re special guests and here to support the cause,” Gwaine says bravely and flips his hair.

“And what would that be?” Merlin asks, although to his own shame, even he doesn’t know for sure.

Elena brings the event’s brochure close to her eyes. “The Friends of the Wildlife Compassion Society,” she reads and nods, swallowing. “We’re in full support of FAWCS.”

“Yes, we’re looking forward to meeting the FAWCers.” Gwaine nods, with a smug, stupidly pompous smirk on his face.

Merlin tilts his head, trying to come up with a sarcastic remark, and misses the moment when Gwaine steps forward with a, "Well, helloooo there," in a voice full of flirt and honey, and grabs Arthur's hand. “You must be Arthur, Merlin’s _husband_. Heard so much about you.” His dark, oily eyes rove over Arthur with the utmost appreciation.

Merlin mutters, “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.”

Arthur doesn’t seem fazed. His laugh is warm; he even seems flattered, saying, “I’m glad Merlin mentions me, but if he told you I snore, it’s all lies. I sleep like a baby.”

Gwaine doesn’t let go of Arthur’s hand right away. “Not that it’s any of our business, but judging by the _spring_ in Merlin’s step lately, you do a little more than that in bed.”   

“Oh my god,” Merlin groans, slapping his hand to his face. “You must leave, immediately. Both of you.”

But Arthur takes it all in stride. He makes a slight, galant turn. “Hello, Elena. It’s nice to see you again.” He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses it, ignoring Merlin’s despair. “Thank you for finding the time on such short notice. You look fantastic.”

Elena blushes and practically curtsies in response.

“That she does,” Gwaine agrees, gazing at her with warm approval. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he assures Arthur, and adds with a wide smile, “and we can't wait to meet your sister as well.”

Merlin starts viciously imagining Gwaine covered in a grey fur, four-legged, and with a long tail growing out of his arse; that makes whatever sounds coming out of his teammate’s foul mouth more tolerable.

Arthur chuckles. “She _is_ something.” He leans forward between them and says in a hushed voice, “My apologies in advance. My sister can be fierce and doesn’t mince words. If I didn’t know her better, I’d be scared of her.”

“Is that so?” Gwaine asks, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “She reminds me of someone I know.”

“Everyone reminds you of everyone, Gwaine,” Merlin interjects quickly, although he can’t stop the unpleasant churning in his gut. Why can’t Arthur’s sister be a sweet and humble person, and not so ominously similar to their Morgana? Can’t Merlin ever catch a break?

“Speak of the devil,” Arthur says, looking behind Merlin’s shoulder, a smile freezing on his face.

Merlin feels himself breaking a sweat and his knees give out a little.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur slides his hand into Merlin’s and, pulling on it, murmurs, “Come on, baby, it won’t be that bad.” And as Merlin turns around to follow Arthur, Gwaine whispers dramatically behind his neck, “Oh mate, you’re so fucked.”

 

 

~LDN~

 

Morgana, in a black jumpsuit with wide-leg trousers, armful of gold bangle bracelets and a dramatic red pendant necklace hanging down her plunge-neck top, is gorgeous and all about relaxed glamour. As usual, her black hair is slicked back and is in a complicated knot, and she wears her signature deep-red lipstick. If anyone knows how to make an entrance, it’s definitely Merlin’s boss.

Next to her is a young woman. Her dark skin and pure-white gown is a dramatic contrast to Morgana’s appearance, and achieves what Merlin’s sure is a well-planned effect: as they walk into the room, smiling and hand in hand, every head is turned and a murmur of excitement and warm welcome ripples through the crowd.

Morgana’s eyes swiftly scan the room and freeze, narrowed, on Arthur and Merlin. She leans to whisper something to her companion, earning an approving nod and affectionate rub of a cheek against Morgana’s shoulder.

“Hello, Morgana,” Arthur says gruffly, as they approach the two ladies, turned in their direction and waiting, Gwaine and Elena trailing behind. “Good evening, Gwen. Nice to see you.” Gwen murmurs a soft greeting back.

Morgana lifts her chin. “I’m glad you could make it, Arthur.”  She leans to air-kiss his cheek, then turns to Merlin and _smiles_.

Seriously, where did she learn to smile like that? Did she go to a special school to study how to quirk her mouth and brows to just the right degree and angle to successfully _frighten_ people out of their existence? Because it’s certainly working on Merlin, who’s glad his black jacket is doing a good job of masking sweat spots under his armpits while he’s making an active effort not to cower and hide behind Arthur.

“This is Merlin, I presume?” she asks, her gaze gliding to Arthur and Merlin’s joined hands. Gwaine snorts behind them, and Merlin wishes for the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

But what’s done is done, and what a heart wants is what a heart wants, and it’s time for Merlin to man up, even though in his worst nightmare he had never imagined being related to his own boss.

“Hello, Morgana.” He thrusts his hand forward, challenging Morgana to take it with the arch of his brow. “Thank you for having me here tonight.”

“Oh, it’s a real pleasure, trust me,” she purrs, squeezing his hand in a commanding, uncomfortably hard shake.

Merlin blinks away a wince.

“This is Gwen Smith, my girlfriend and the woman behind this incredible event.” She gives Gwen the kind of amorous, affectionate smile Merlin has never thought Morgana capable of (he also thinks he can hear Elena swoon behind him) as she points to the young woman next to her. A soft blush appears on Gwen's cheeks as she offers her hand to Merlin for a warm shake in turn.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Merlin says sincerely. Gwen, indeed, seems very nice, and despite this unfortunate situation, he’s genuinely happy for Morgana.

“Are you all related?” Gwaine asks, ruining the moment.

Gwen frowns. “Pardon?”

“Never mind him,” Merlin says quickly. “Those two behind me are professional party-crashers. Feel free to kick them out.”

“Oh, it’s all right, we’ll give them a chance,” Morgana allows, her lips forming a snarky curve. “I hear they can be entertaining.”

Before Gwaine does another thing to make an arse out of himself, someone calls Gwen’s name and waves at her from the other side of the room. “If you’ll excuse me,” she says. “Duty calls. Thank you again for coming tonight.”

The air becomes even more charged with her departure. Arthur, probably sensing that, steps closer to Merlin. “Morgana--” he starts.

She interrupts him. “Tell us, Merlin, what do you do?”

Oh, the witch doesn’t beat around the bush. Merlin sucks in a sharp breath, bracing himself as he’s searching for a neutral answer.

“Merlin is in the line of defense,” Arthur speaks for him quickly.

“Interesting. Office-bound or do you see some real action?” 

“What does that even mean, Morgana?” Arthur asks, raising his voice a little. “Why does it matter to you what Merlin does?”

“Oh, our Merlin sees plenty of action.” Gwaine steps out from behind them and squeezes Merlin’s shoulder. “Right, Merlin? Just look at those muscles, not to mention his long legs.” For a second there, Merlin’s convinced Gwaine’s going to slap his arse.

He starts choking. “Gwaine, please shut up,” he begs, preemptively twisting away.

“He does virtual security, and is very much in demand,” Arthur presses, unaware of Gwaine’s perverse mind, and Merlin wishes (for Arthur’s sake) that he could keep it that way.

“Hmmm…” Morgana taps her chin. “I might have a spot for you at my organisation, if you’re interested.”

Arthur steps forward. “He’s not.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says quietly, a little perturbed by his partner's near-panic, and maybe even a little more than offended by the idea that he believes Merlin can’t defend himself. “Please. It’s all right.” He turns to his boss. “Thank you, Morgana. I’m flattered. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Arthur opens his mouth to say something, his brows flying up, but with one look at frowning Merlin, he shuts up. Merlin’s heart squeezes in recognition of his partner’s tact and sensitivity.

Morgana’s lips slither into a shrewd smile. “You _should_ be flattered. I only hire the best.”

Both Merlin and Arthur roll their eyes, although Merlin suspects it’s for two entirely different reasons.

“Arthur, dear,” Morgana turns back to her brother, “my offer still stands for you as well. Good accountants are hard to come by, and I hear you’re one of the best.”

“I’m not an accountant,” Arthur growls.

“Oh no?” Morgana tilts her dark brow, lifting one corner of her mouth so she looks like she’s both amused and slightly bored (another award-worthy expression of hers) and says, “What is it, then?”

Arthur’s shoulders drop forward.

“A financial advisor,” Merlin supplies, glad to show his support for his partner and happy he finally remembered his occupation correctly.

Morgana doesn’t seem to approve of such solidarity. “Right. Unsung heroes. Both of you.”

Arthur looks at Merlin apologetically. “Forgive my sister, she’s always been unbearably bossy. Even when playing with dolls.”

“I never played with dolls,” Morgana says. Her green eyes light up with a warning, sparkles of gold swimming in the bright green of her irises.

“Right, forgive me.” Arthur raises his palms. “You just enjoyed setting their hair on fire. Always by _accident_.”

It’s unclear how, but as Morgana straightens her shoulders, she looks at least an inch taller, and Merlin begins to get a feeling that if Arthur keeps his teasing up, he might _accidentally_ share the fate of Morgana’s dolls, and Merlin’s definitely not in support of that outcome.

“So, Morgana,” Gwaine pipes up, for once in his lifetime perfectly on cue. “How come you and Arthur don’t share the same surname? And rumour has it, you’re of Pendragon blood -- is that true?”

Well, maybe not perfectly.

Merlin can actually see Morgana’s cheeks pale even beyond their usual porcelain white.

Arthur huffs a laugh, which comes out a little too loud. “Seriously, Morgana…” His laugh dies down. “Gwaine, how on earth do you know about those rumours?”  He turns his head from one to the other, eyes sharper. “Do you actually know each other?”

That effectively shuts Merlin’s bloody friend up. Goddamn him and his blabbering mouth! Merlin knew this dinner was a bad idea, and what are they supposed to do now?

“God, I’m starving! Is it time for some food? Maybe some _hors d'oeuvres_?” Elena asks, pulling Gwaine to her side. “Of course they don’t know each other, Arthur! You must’ve mentioned something to Merlin and Merlin had mentioned it to us.”

 _Oh no, Elena_. Merlin shakes his head, leaning back out of Arthur’s view. _Please don’t talk. No more talking_.

Morgana’s already regained her composure, her lipstick shining brighter than a minute before -- by magic, of course -- and she lifts her massive red pendant, twisting it between her fingers, as if with some intent. Merlin wonders if it’s also an artifact but can’t remember ever seeing this particular piece. He quietly muses to himself in resignation that if she’s hoping to use its power to help Gwaine with adding some brain cells, it’s futile -- Gwaine is a long-lost cause.

But no, nothing of magical effect happens. Gwaine continues to look his usual daft self as Morgana’s expression stays pensively amused, and Merlin realises she’s simply enjoying the show, watching her three employees (one of them is her in-law, thank you very much!) collectively digging themselves into their proverbial graves.  

Merlin wishes he knew a spell for erasing the last 10 minutes of his -- and everyone’s -- life. If it only were that simple.

But maybe, just maybe, miracles _are_ possible after all, because Merlin’s mobile starts ringing, as well as Gwaine’s and Elena’s -- all at the same time. All three sigh with relief, and with mumbled excuses, disperse in different directions to take their calls.

Merlin ends up taking his in the garden, kicking the withering leaves under his feet.

“Wizard,” the familiar voice of the Agency’s dispatcher tells him. “You’ve been assigned a task. The communication with the necessary details has been sent to you.”

Merlin doesn’t ask questions when he’s asked if he has any. His mobile makes the usual alert sound confirming the arrival of instructions. He watches through the French doors as Arthur’s exchanging words with Morgana, making abrupt gestures, and he responds to the caller with a firm, “Assignment received. Over.”

By the time he’s done reading the details of it, he’s already received texts from both Gwaine and Elena, notifying him that they’re waiting for him outside. Walking back into the solar room, Merlin finds Morgana alone.

He starts, “Morgana, I--” having no idea what to say, having no excuses, nor time to come up with any.

“Leave it, Merlin,” Morgana stops him. “Not important anymore. I just hope it’s not too late.”

“What are you talking about?” Merlin asks, dread settling heavily in his stomach.

“Everything you need to know, you know already,” Morgana answers, suddenly looking tired.

“Oh, brilliant. Listen, I have to go -- new assignment. Where’s Arthur?”

Morgana hesitates. “I think he’s in the loo. But you go on, I’ll tell him. I’ll apologise for you.”

“But,” Merlin protests, hating leaving without seeing Arthur after the earlier fiasco, and glances at the time on his mobile. Shit, he _must_ go.

“Please go, Merlin. When this is over, we’ll figure out this thing with Arthur,” Morgana urges. “Remember what I told you, about trusting your gut and your magic?” Her eyes are pleading.

“I remember. But it’s not _a thing,_ ” Merlin bristles. “If there’s a thing you need to know, it’s that I love him, Morgana.”

She smiles softly. “Then there’s nothing else to discuss. Go!”

Merlin runs.

 

~LDN~

 

“What’s the plan?” Elena asks, as soon as Merlin slides into the car where both Gwaine and she are waiting for him.

It’s past nine o’clock in the evening and it's already getting dark.

“You’re going to the Agency, where you’ll be fully equipped to support me, since it’s only about 10 minutes away,” Merlin says, loosening his bow-tie. “And Gwaine will deliver me to the location. Stay on.” Their comms are already in their ears.

Elena nods while Gwaine exclaims, “Great!”

Gwaine turns on the engine of the car as soon as Elena gets out. They hear the tires screeching at the entrance of the car park and see two cars almost colliding, with one car entering and another leaving. “Does anyone know how to drive anymore in this city?” he grumbles.

“Elena’s ride?” Merlin asks, watching her take off her evening shoes, pick up the hem of her gown, and trudge towards the approaching vehicle. 

“Yes, she called for backup. Our girl has learned to anticipate your every move.” Gwaine's grumbling again, yet his fond smile can’t be more obvious about how proud of her he is. He’s switching gears and starts driving as soon as the backup car stops by Elena to take her on board.

“I should’ve sent you with her,” Merlin says. “So you could--”

“No way,” Gwaine cuts him off, stepping on it once they merge into the main road, going from 0 to 60 in a matter of seconds. “We’re a team. "You can't go in there alone.”

“Yet, I will,” Merlin says, pulling out his mobile device again. “I can glamour myself, remember?”

“Right." Gwaine scoffs. "The usual excuse. Now, mate, tell me what’s _really_ going on? Why are we on this assignment?”

Merlin sighs. “Gaius asked. The security system -- _my_ security system,” he clarifies, “has been compromised at the Geffrye Museum, and there's something on display that's dear to him.”

“So, nothing to do with the Triskelion?”

“I don’t think so.”

The Geffrye Museum is located on Kingsland Road and was established to explore the style, fashion, and taste of England’s homes and domesticity for the past 400 years, and the majority of the display pieces have no other value than being representative of several historical periods of the country.

“It’s only about 6 miles away,” Elena comments in Merlin’s ear.

Merlin pulls a tablet out of the glove compartment, enters the coordinates into the map app, and scans the route. “If the security works as I designed it, it will go on a lockdown and the thief will be stuck inside, but we need to be there first. Shit, even without traffic, we won’t make it there in less than 20 minutes,” he calculates.

“In 14, if you hurry,” Elena says.

“You're right, the boy’s magic has to be good for something,” Gwaine says. “Go ahead, Merlin, take out your wand.”

Gwaine’s eyes crinkle in the corners, darting somewhere south over Merlin’s body.

“Watch the road, plonker,” Merlin grumbles but listens to the advice. _Not_ about the wand, obviously -- about changing the street lights to their favour.

He concentrates and sends his magic, finally allowed a few moments of silence by his chatty teammate, so in the haste of switching the lights neither of them cause an accident -- not a scenario they'd be okay with.

“E, the museum’s floor plans,” he orders as they make a sharp turn and take a smaller, relatively quiet street a few minutes away from their destination. “You should have one in the files from when I installed the security system there.”

“Sending,” Elena says. “M, if it’s theft, what are they after?”

“Let’s be real,” Merlin responds. “If it’s theft, they didn’t go after the print of ‘The Gentlewomans Delight in Cookery’, however useful the old cooking tricks might be.”

Elena snorts.

“Or it could be nothing,” Gwaine suggests. “False alarm.”

“My security system doesn’t go off for nothing, and you know it,” Merlin says, irritation flaring up at the ignorant comment. “Use your brain. Why do you think a museum that essentially displays old household items requested _my_ security system?”

Gwaine shrugs. “I don’t know -- why?”

Merlin sighs. “The curator of the museum, Geoffrey Monmouth, is Gaius’s old friend and to support him and his latest project, Gaius had arranged to lend the museum an artifact, Gaius’s own Grimoire -- the book of scrys, talismans, healing plants and herbs. Some call it a 'book of magic'.”

“Okay, but...” Gwaine shakes his head. “The Grimoire is not an uncommon artifact for those interested in magic. I mean, it’s _interesting,_ but not exciting enough to go to jail for.”

“So you’d think,” Merlin says grimly. “Gaius says here--” he points to his device he’s reading the details of the assignment from-- “there’s more than just recipes for colic potions. There are other, more harmful things described in the book.”

“Such as?” Gwaine asks, glancing at Merlin. 

“Such as schematics for building a little thing called Trebuchet. And the spell to activate it. It’s a weapon, Gwaine. Legends say it’s powerful enough to level an entire city. Imagine if this weapon were modernised.”

“The Bureau wouldn’t be interested in that,” Elena comments.

“No, the Bureau probably wouldn’t,” Merlin agrees. “But you know who would? MI6.”

“Oh, come off it,” Gwaine dismisses him with a scoff. “MI6 wouldn’t steal so blatantly from a museum. They have other methods to get what they want.”

“Yep. They can _hire_ someone to steal it. Send authorities and then take over. Did Mordred’s case teach you nothing? They don’t even need to keep the book -- just get their hands on it for a while and return it when we raise a stink.”

“Bloody hell,” Gwaine swears and speeds up again. “That’s it -- I’m going in with you!”

“No, Gwaine. I’ll need you here, walking me through the building.”

“What if the thief is armed? You don’t carry any.”

Merlin hates, _hates_ bringing up the obvious -- the main difference between him and his teammate.

“No, I don't,” he answers quietly. “And we both know I don’t need weapons.” Because Merlin himself is a weapon powerful enough as he's been learning.

He checks his device for messages; there’s none, so hopefully Morgana conveyed his apology to Arthur.

“Look, you might be right,” Merlin says to pacify his hot-eyed and white-knuckled teammate. “It might be nothing. Could be some stupid fifteen-year-old tossers who were too bored and decided to break in.”

“I am _not._ _Sitting._ _In the car_ ,” Gwaine says through his teeth. “You don’t need me walking you through anything. You’ve all you need already in your head. I _know_ you.”

“All right.”

Merlin whispers a spell, placing a temporary protective shield on Gwaine, just in case. It’s not much, and it always drains Merlin more than it should, but no one has better reflexes or moves faster than Gwaine, and combined with the spell, he should be safer. “You can walk around the perimeter, then. You’ll catch the little shits when I herd them out.” He smiles.

“And if whoever’s there aren’t harmless teenagers?”

Thankfully, the museum comes into view -- the front, adorned with the red brick, white-trimmed windows, and thick vines of ivy climbing the walls, is lit up in the dark artfully and peacefully -- and Merlin’s saved from answering that question. No police cars with sirens in sight, nor is there any other commotion. Their team is here first, and he sighs in relief, thinking that if he’s wrong and it’s his bloody _rival_ from the Bureau who’s broken in, the wanker is definitely inside there right now, caught by Merlin’s security system. Finally!

Merlin’s mood lifts.

“E, we’re at the location,” he says, smiling. “Stay put.”

“Got it,” Elena’s clear voice responds right away.

“Why are you so cheery all of a sudden?” Gwaine asks as they park at the end of the street and quietly leave the car. “Whatever you’re plotting, don’t do anything stupid, Merlin.”

Merlin grins. “Stupid is not my department. I think I already know who's inside and I'm going to catch the bastard.”

He assumes his usual glamour and trots towards the side of the building.

The game is on.

 

The museum is a set of townhouses behind a shared facade. Historically, it was developed to be a home for the elderly and poor, and has its own chapel, several gardens, a small cemetery, a library, and the archives. As Merlin approaches the brick wall guarding the museum, he knows to expect a large space behind it and that it won’t be easy to cover the entire territory quickly. If he hadn’t been muting his own footfalls, he’d probably hear gravel crunching under his careful steps.

Cautiously, he sends his magic out. His security system is not designed to blare someone’s ear off upon touching it; instead, it simply locks the perpetrator inside and notifies the owners. To Merlin’s philosophy -- somewhat adopted from his mentor -- curiosity is not an offense. Acting on it without permission, let alone breaking something or hurting someone as a result, is. And that’s what happened here tonight. He knows it the moment his magic gallops ahead, spreading around and finding a link broken in the security. Someone figured out how to break in, but then, getting out proved to be impossible. Oh, Merlin is going to enjoy shoving every single coin back in that Bureau’s bastard’s face. Who’s slow now, huh? Meeting his rival personally, on Merlin’s terms, is the best revenge.

Predictably, he receives no resistance at the gate, and is able to pass through the iron bars, stretching to fit the shape of his body just so, without getting stuck.

The area behind the protective walls has its own microclimate. The air is warm and still, and the only sound interrupting its tranquility is the insistent chirp of crickets. The sharp smell wafting from the herb garden only adds to what the visitors of the museum describe as a lovely, peaceful atmosphere. If only Merlin could believe his nose and ears... because among all this peace and tranquility, someone is definitely hiding in the dark -- Merlin’s magic never lies.

“So far it’s all clear outside, no visible property damage,” he whispers after a brisk survey of the grounds. “No vandalism or graffiti on site.”

“I’m at the East wing and it’s absolutely dead here as well,” Gwaine responds.

“I’m going inside. I’m fairly certain there’s an artifact of a low strength located in the centre of the building right now. There’s also something, muted but there, somewhere under the ground.”

“Careful, M,” Elena says in a matching hushed tone; Gwaine just grunts his support of that warning.

Merlin makes a face and nods, even though they can’t see it.

“M, the Grimoire is in one of the Reading Rooms next to the Chapel, Gaius has just confirmed,” Elena says, as if reading his thoughts. “It’s a part of the exhibit and located exactly in the middle of the building. There are also archives in the basement, next to the Period Garden Rooms.”

He hums his appreciation of Elena’s proactive thinking, silently walking towards the gleam of the tall glass windows, behind which are the Reading Rooms. 

“Still nothing?” Gwaine asks.

“Patience,” Merlin mutters, quickly gliding alongside the building’s wall, and, turning around the corner, stops at the locked doors that, according to Elena's instructions in his ear, are the only entrance into the museum aside from the main one.

He whispers a spell and the door opens without the smallest creak. Sliding in, he’s met with yet more darkness and silence, the smell of waxed floors and something else -- faintly sweet and damp, typical for old buildings -- hitting his nostrils.

Every room he passes on the way to the destination is empty, security untouched.

“You know what’s strange?” Merlin says very quietly, moving down a dimly lit hallway. “I have yet to meet a single guard.”

“That is strange, isn’t it?” Gwaine says. “They better not be harmed.”

“They better not be,” Merlin agrees, a wave of cold anger chilling his chest.

Finally, he stops by one of the large wooden doors. “This is it. I can sense an artifact.”

Neither teammate comments, probably just holding their breath.

The moment he slides into the room, his magic surges through him in such an overwhelming tide, he barely manages to contain it. “Easy,” he mutters, wondering what sent it into such a frenzy, and commands it to act useful by conjuring up a few floating, lantern-shaped lights.

One glance at the empty glass of the exhibit at the centre of the room, and it’s clear that Gaius’s book is gone from its spot, but the good news is his magic can still feel it. The artifact has not left the room. Where is it, though?

“You can come out, you know,” he says loudly. “We both know you’re here and you’re stuck.”

There’s no response.

Merlin swiftly moves between the tables towards the rows of the bookshelves -- the room is essentially a library of resources available per guests’ request. Well, his request so far is being denied, but not for long.

“There’s nowhere to go,” Merlin says again and slows down as he passes the first aisle of books, then the second, carefully checking between each row of shelves. “Save yourself some dignity.”

He finds him in the fourth row -- a dark figure against the window, lit by the garden lamps from outside, face hidden in the shadow. One of Merlin’s lanterns floats close, highlighting a gun in his outstretched hand.

“Don’t come near me,” the guy says in a growl. “Whoever you are. I’ve hidden the artifact. It will take you days to find it here, and you don’t have that much time.”

Merlin laughs, ignoring a pang in his heart at the sound of the man’s voice. There’s no fear or despair there: only confidence that the truth is on his side. And there’s something else; it’s--

Merlin doesn’t have the time to analyse it -- or so he tells himself. “That’s fine with me,” he says, keeping his voice low. “But you’re not walking away with it, either. Or free. Put your weapon down. Hands behind your head.”

“M,” Gwaine sounds off in his ear. “I’m going in."

“No,” Merlin barks. “I’ll handle it.”

“But--”

Merlin taps off his comm, cutting off the communication with his team without warning, which is the worst violation an agent can commit. But there’s something… something in the officer’s stance, in his bloody voice, that tells Merlin he’d better deal with this bloke alone. This is a private matter.

“Give it up,” he says, searching the face in the shadow. “You can’t leave.”

“You’re mistaken,” the man says. “I know this security system. _Phoenix Eye_ , second generation. I’ve been _trained_ to break it.”

Merlin tilts his head, thinking. _Phoenix Eye_ has never been offered for public consumption, and only one other organisation could get their hands on it -- probably something negotiated between Morgana and Uther in exchange for a snatched artifact. Well, that only proves Merlin’s theory.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks, his voice still low, and takes a step forward. “I _designed_ this system.”

He’s offered a scoff as a response.

“I know who _you_ are,” Merlin says. “Every one of you at the Bureau. _Cowards,_ ” he spits out and takes another step.

“Come any closer and I’ll shoot,” the guys warns, ignoring Merlin’s furious words.

The second lantern floats up, this time showing the bloke’s upper body, and finally his face.

Merlin’s step falters and his mouth goes dry. He should be lighting up the entire floor with magic, illuminating this place with the power of a thousand watts, yet all he does is stare at the person in a white, untucked dress shirt with a loosened bow tie hanging on his neck. 

“I said I’ll shoot,” comes another warning, gun leveling with his chest, and it spurs Merlin into action.

“You fucking bastard!” he howls and launches at the guy. He’s forgotten about his magic and the gun in his opponent’s hand. All he’s thinking is, _What have you done to Arthur?_ _You sick fuck!_

He twists the gun from the guy’s hand, not expecting it to be this easy, but it is for some reason, and punches him in the head.

The gun skitters away, firing a loud shot. No one ducks and no one appears to be hurt, and Merlin kicks it away with his foot and launches at the guy again.

“I’ll kill you, you fucking monster. Give me the crystal!” Merlin throws another punch, this time in the brow.

The guy's head jerks back, but he doesn’t back down this time. Lifting his shoulders and arms, he jabs back -- successfully. The lightning-fast, powerful blow lands across Merlin’s cheek, sharp pain piercing through it, and Merlin sees white sparks in front of his eyes that have nothing to do with magic.

“What crystal?” the bloke with Arthur’s face and shape grunts. “Move the fuck back.”

“Fucking liar. You stole the Blood Crystal. You--“ Merlin can’t even think straight anymore, his own blood chilling at the scenario -- just one -- playing in his head, and he sees red. “You used his blood, didn’t you? You took his form.” He starts advancing on the guy again. “Where is he? Where’s Arthur?”

“What the fuck?” the guy asks. Holding his fists at his face, he’s taking a retreating step back and shaking his head as if to clear it. “Who are you?”

“I asked first,” Merlin snarls, shaking with rage. He knows that he won’t kill the lying son of a bitch, won’t even pummel him unconscious, no matter how attractive the idea seems right now. He can’t, because then, he wouldn’t be able to find out where his Arthur is and what this sicko has done to him. If he has the Blood Crystal, he's not from the Bureau -- otherwise, the Agency would've received a notification about retrieving it. Who is he, then? MI6? Just the possibility of it devastates him.

Without thinking, he delivers a heavy blow under the block of the guy’s elbows, right into his gut, and while the guy coughs, Merlin slams him against the window that trembles under their combined weight, and wraps his fingers around his throat.

“Who sent you here?” Merlin asks.

The bastard starts gasping for air. (God, he looks so much like Arthur -- the sharp outline of his jaw and the curve of his mouth; even his hair is styled just the way he’d last seen it at the dinner, if a little mussed -- Merlin has trouble keeping the choke over the fucker’s neck). He writhes under Merlin’s suffocating hold, but then, somehow, twists out of it, his movements so fast and skilled, it’s a blur of motions -- and then it’s Merlin’s back pressed against the groaning glass.

“You think I’d tell you,” the bloke spits out, trying to focus his eyes on Merlin’s face, looking more and more confused.

Merlin’s never had someone study him this close with his glamour on before and display such concrete proof of the spell’s power. That gives Merlin the boost he needs to--

He doesn’t get to overpower his opponent, because the moment he opens his mouth to send his magic to bind him, someone else skids across the opening of the aisle and comes right back, stopping dead at the end of the row, which distracts Merlin for long enough to lose his grip.

That proves to be a big mistake.

The bloke’s fist approaches him too quickly (the speed of which Merlin would admire any other day) and hits him in the temple, muting the world for a moment, and as he’s blinking off sharp pain and surprise, the guy blurs in front of him, grabbing his gun, and not a moment later, the glass behind him shatters, and he’s gone through the broken window. Gravel crunches under his hasty retreating steps.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. The thief is not supposed to break away. What the hell is happening with Merlin's magic? Why is it acting like a bloody doormat?

“M!” Gwaine exclaims, running towards the bewildered Merlin. “Who was that? I thought I saw--”

Merlin doesn’t listen. Angry at his daft interrupting teammate and himself for being so weak, he tests his magic by unleashing it on Gwaine and stopping him from coming closer.

Gwaine yelps, “The fuck is wrong with you?” but freezes.

“Some thug’s pretending to be Arthur,” Merlin snaps. "Stay away. He’s mine."

Whirling around, he jumps out of the ground floor window, bracing his body for the impact and rolling over his shoulder when he hits the ground. Springing back to his feet, he looks around, noting a looming white shirt in the dark that’s becoming less and less visible as the guy moves away.

When Merlin tries to send his magic to trip him up, the command comes out half-jumbled. This has never happened to him before. Did the protection spell for Gwaine drain him that much?

“The hell?” he wheezes and takes off after the guy, who at that same moment makes a sharp turn towards the gardens and disappears in the dark completely. Merlin follows his steps, and, making a turn, runs into a garden. Following the sounds of rustling, he tears through some bushes, branches hitting him sharply in the face, scratching his neck, catching at his lip, and he almost faceplants into a wall once he’s out. “Shite.”

 _A separate building next to the gardens_ , he remembers. _A basement with possibly another artifact_. 

Merlin feels around and finds an ironclad door with uneven, sharp edges under his searching hand. He doesn’t even need a spell -- it’s already unlocked, security broken. How? His opponent is too good.

He hears crunching steps somewhere behind him, and thinks it must be Gwaine again or maybe a security guard, finally, but neither have his interest right now. He wrenches the door open, and with a deep breath, jumps inside, ready for another blow, but nothing happens -- it’s dead silent and pitch-black.

He shuts the door and takes a few steps forward, but no matter how tentative they are, he still loses his balance, tumbling down a spiral staircase with what feels like at least a hundred steps. If it weren’t for his well-trained, flexible body, he’d probably end up at the bottom with his head cracked open. He manages to avoid that, but his ribs and shoulders hurt.

“You better work with me here,” he mutters, cross with his magic, and tries a trick he used earlier -- lighting up a few lanterns in the air. Thank fucking god, it works. But then again, how is he supposed to trust the stupid thing if he immediately finds himself nose to nose with the bastard in Arthur’s form.

The bastard jumps back, hitting the wall behind him. One hand in a fist, another squeezing a pointed gun, his eyes darting around.

“This is the end of the road," Merlin says firmly, angry at himself for being jarred so much by the guy’s freakish likeness to Arthur that even his magic is hesitant about wrestling him down. He tries to tell himself that it's because the guy may shoot, and Merlin can't afford him dead if the bullet ricochets, which is probably why the guy doesn't open fire himself. "We both know you won't shoot," he says. "But I'm willing to negotiate. Just drop the pretense and tell me what you did to--”

“I think it’s you who should stop playing games,” the guy interrupts him, his eyes roving over Merlin with a familiar expression of evaluation. Something flicks on his face, some sort of recognition. “Your appearance keeps shifting. Stop that. Face me properly,” he demands sharply.

Merlin’s anger flares up again. “You don’t get to dictate the rules here.”

“And you think you do?”

“I didn’t come here to steal,” Merlin argues. “And I didn’t draw someone’s blood to falsify an identity to do it.” And as he says it, a question that whizzed through his mind at the time he threw his first punch at the library returns loud and clear. If the Blood Crystal is involved here, why isn't he sensing a single iota of magic on the guy right now?

"You can think whatever--" The bloke starts, but then turns still. Scarily so. His eyes freeze on Merlin’s face and the gun falters in his hand. “Please show me your face,” he asks, so quietly, Merlin can barely hear the words.

Merlin doesn’t want to, but his magic does. His magic shifts almost painfully in him, and it feels like a sharp stab in the gut. It feels like he doesn’t have a choice. He lifts his glamour.

The guy’s expression shatters and he drops the hand with the gun. “Merlin,” he says with such pain in his voice, something shatters inside Merlin too.

“How do you--”

Merlin doesn’t get to finish his question. Somewhere inside, he already knows he doesn’t need to, because there’s no point in denying the truth anymore, even if he wants to. A man who looks _this_ devastated simply cannot be an imposter.

But all that would have to be saved for later, as they’re interrupted by the loud noise of running steps down the iron stairs, and as Merlin turns to check who their visitors are, he hears a bang and something whizzes past his ear. More bangs follow -- they're being shot at, without a warning or negotiation.

“No,” Merlin says, planting his feet wide on the ground and raising his hand.

His magic, fickle and confused just a minute before, obeys him with covetous ease, leaping ahead to meet their assailants, tumbling them off their feet at the bottom of the stairs. They bounce up quickly, like wound-up toys. There are three of them, tall and lean, in sharp dark suits, their jaws squared, and Merlin thinks that he doesn’t care who they are -- they deserve what’s coming, since they’re making it very clear they’re not here to make friends.

They just continue to shoot, but thanks to Merlin’s magic, which has already formed an impenetrable shield in front of them, none of the bullets reach their targets -- or so Merlin believes. So it surprises him when he hears a stifled cry behind him, and, glancing over his shoulder, sees a face -- _his_ Arthur’s face -- white from shock and crumbling in pain.

 _Is this what love really feels like?_ he wonders, his heart breaking into pieces just from the sight of the man he’d die to protect from being hurt. If it is, love knows no mercy, he learns as he transforms his magic from a shield to a weapon and, no longer keeping his cold fury at bay, he sends it out.

He hears Arthur’s stifled plea, “Merlin, no,” and somehow, his magic _listens_ , managing to soften the blow at the last moment. All three attackers crumple on the ground without a sound.

With a shuddering sigh, Merlin drops his hand. The silence that follows is thick in the air, unbearable, but a much-needed reprieve to collect his wits.

Then, he turns around.  

 

~LDN~

 

Merlin’s magic knows that something is wrong first.

“Arthur.”

He lights up the entire space -- which turns out to be a tunnel -- with a flick of a wrist and propels himself toward his... (partner? opponent?), who’s holding his fisted hand by his left side while slowly slumping against the wall.

“Are you hit?” Merlin asks.

Arthur grimaces, sweat on his forehead darkening the fringe of his hair. “Just a scratch.” He smiles weakly. “Hi, baby. Long time, no see.” He sits heavily on the ground, a grunt escaping his lips. 

“I can’t believe you’re flirting with me right now,” Merlin comments, at a loss how to react. “I punched you in the face, remember?”

“Eh.” Arthur makes a face. “I punched you back.”

“I thought you were someone else.”

Arthur lifts his shoulder. “Well, so did I. Then, you mentioned my name and that really messed with my head.”

 _But why are you here?_ Merlin wants to ask. _How?_

He doesn’t. What’s the point?

“I assume you didn’t just follow me here,” he says instead. “With a gun.”

“No, Merlin.” Arthur closes his eyes with a quiet groan. "Meeting you here was the last thing I expected. Or that you work for the Agency."

Merlin notes a red spot growing under Arthur’s hand and tries to pry it away. “Shite, let me see it. Come on, don’t be stubborn.”

Arthur drops his hand to his side, palm up. Something gleams between his half-curled fingers, stained with blood, and Merlin forgets how to breathe for a moment.

When he remembers, he rasps, “What’s that?" Like he doesn't know already. “Are you kidding me?”

“Fuck,” Arthur says.

Yes, _fuck_. And to be more specific -- a fucking coin with fucking turtles is in Arthur’s hand.

“Keep the change?” Arthur jokes with a slight lift of a corner of his mouth.

“Fuck you, Officer Smith, you can fucking keep it yourself this time,” Merlin says, breathing in and out harshly. "I caught you."

“Actually… It’s Senior Operative Pendragon,” Arthur says, closing his eyes.

 _Pendragon? Yes, of course._ It's not like Merlin hasn't considered this possibility already. Morgana, the rumours of her being related to Uther, and Arthur coming to the mix -- of course he had thought of the chance Arthur being a Pendragon. He’d dismissed it then, foolishly, refusing to consider it ever again. 

“You look at me, SO Pendragon,” Merlin demands, feeling his heart sink like a stone. “Don’t you dare pretend you’re dying here just to get out of this conversation.”

Arthur’s breathing is turning shallow, his face losing all colour, but Merlin’s too furious to fully process those signs yet.

“Oh, I’d never,” Arthur complies and wrestles his face into another feeble smile. It doesn't hold. “Will you tell me your name, please?” he whispers. 

Sweat breaks out on Merlin’s palms and his cheeks grow hot. He has no right to attack Arthur for asking this. He has no right.

“I’m…” he mumbles. “My name is Emrys. Merlin Emrys."

"Merlin Emrys," Arthur echoes, face softening. “It suits you. Although I kind of fancied Mr Smith.”

Merlin swallows. “About that…”

Arthur’s eyes, clouded with pain, are somehow disarmingly earnest. “No, I know… Merlin. I know.”

Merlin can’t stand the apologetic, tender expression there. Like Arthur understands what Merlin’s feeling, and knows why he had to lie. Like there could be a good enough excuse for playing each other like they did. There really isn’t; they went too far.

Dropping his eyes down, he clears his throat.

“Let me...” He carefully lifts Arthur’s bloody shirt to check his wounded side.

Arthur hisses.

“You were right," Merlin says upon quick inspection. "It’s nothing bad. Looks like a bullet grazed your rib. I’m sorry I wasn’t fast enough to stop it.” He bites his lip and then smiles. “But I can fix it. Hold still.” He leans down, closer to the gushing-blood cut and whispers, “ _Gestepe hole! Þurhhæle,_ ” to stop the bleeding and seal the wound, and pushes his magic to complete the job by numbing the pain.

Arthur’s eyes widen. He shivers under the gentle touch of Merlin’s magic. “You can do that too?”

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna clean your shirt.” He smiles sheepishly, wiping his brow with trembling fingers. “I'm pants at that."

Arthur snorts. “You've never been good with laundry. Still, I’m impressed.”

Merlin shrugs. “You can thank your sister Morgana. She insisted that I learned healing spells. I guess she knew this part was coming, although she seemed to have exaggerated a bit about the danger you'd be in.”

“Do you ever feel like she’s always right, though?” Arthur asks, still looking weak and pale.

“Yeah.” Merlin smiles.

“Don’t you just hate that about her?”

“M?” Gwaine’s voice coming from upstairs cuts off their conversation.

“Here, Gwaine,” Merlin yells. "All clear."

“Ah, yes. Of course,” Arthur murmurs. “Partners in crime.”

“There’s no crime in what we do,” Merlin snaps, getting defensive. “But you know what? Check with your father. He’s familiar with the definition better than all of us combined.”

“Merlin,” Arthur starts, his hand twitching in Merlin's direction. “All this-- It's not what you think.”

“I somehow reckon I’ve heard that before,” Merlin says. “Mostly in films. This,” he waves around, “is not a film.”

“It's much better,” Arthur attempts yet another joke.

Merlin huffs softly. “Please shut up.”

Gwaine’s face appears first, and he whistles as he jumps down over the railing and takes in the view. He touches two fingers to the neck of one of the men on the ground.

“Strong pulse.” He looks up. “Oh, hello, Arthur.” He raises his brow at Merlin hovering protectively over Arthur. "So, not a thug?"

“I honestly wish he were,” Merlin admits.

“Oi,” Arthur mumbles.

“What did I tell you about a daytime drama, daisy? Is he okay?” Gwaine asks and looks at Arthur. “How did we miss you coming in, mate?”

Arthur’s closed eyes flutter open and shut again. “I’m that quick and stealthy,” he mutters. “I’m fine, just give me a minute.” He doesn’t look fine.

“Merlin,” Gwaine says. “We need to get out of here. There are three more of the same suits upstairs I had to put down for a kip and something tells me, where there are six, there could be six more.”

“I don’t understand,” Merlin says, looking at Arthur, who's panting, his face glistening with a sheen of sweat. “All for the book?”

“No, Merlin.” Arthur licks his bloodless, dry lips. “Not just for the book.” He’s making a visible effort to turn up his head to look at Gwaine. “It's also about an artifact called The Portal. It should be in the archives somewhere here. I wanted to retrieve it.”

“So you could deliver it to the Bureau? Or MI6?” Merlin asks, setting his jaw.

Arthur grimaces. “Neither. Who do you think the suits are? They _are_ MI6. Did you notice they were shooting at both of us?"

Merlin nods. "I did. But aren't they working with Uther Pendragon?"

Arthur studies Merlin’s face. "My father had come to a certain agreement with them, yes," he finally says. "I disagreed. We haven't been seeing eye to eye for a while. So for this mission, he sent somebody else, not as good as me, but I suspect that was kind of a point -- he was supposed to get caught with the artifact. That didn’t happen. He took out the guard but tripped the security system and got himself stuck before even making it to the artifact."

“You mean no one else at the Bureau besides you knows how this security system works?” Merlin asks.

Arthur starts laughing and ends up coughing. He tries to smile. “No one else figured it out and I wasn’t going to share my knowledge with the thumbheads. That’s why I’m the best.”

Merlin snorts. He also has to give props to Morgana -- she knew what she was doing when she shared _Phoenix Eye_ with Uther.

Arthur shifts, grimacing as if from pain, and continues, "I wish I could intercept him sooner, but I was informed of the mission too late. He’s still in one of the rooms there, by the way. Out cold.”

“What’s with the suits, then?” Gwaine asks. “They came out of nowhere.”

“I assume they watched the museum and waited,” Arthur says. “Probably tried to figure out how to react when it became crowded, but since the museum didn't report a break-in, the security system stayed quiet, and my father’s guy wasn’t coming out with the artifacts, they couldn't officially interfere. I think they eventually decided to ambush us here and rid of us.”

“Looks like they never learn,” Gwaine says. “Right, M?”

Merlin wishes he knew what to say. So, Arthur is a Bureau officer, but wasn't here to help MI6 or even the Bureau? He clashed with his own father over something that was so important he risked his life? Yet, he still brought the coin. _Bastard_. Looks like some habits die hard. And what about Morgana? How much does she know?

“Merlin, did you hear me? The _Portal_.” Arthur tries to get up and slumps back.

"Why are you after it?” Merlin asks.

"It's a bridge between two worlds,” Arthur grunts. “It allows in all kinds of creatures and monsters. I don’t think any of us would want that."

"If you’d got your hands on it, were you planning to destroy it?" Merlin wants to know.

"Not sure. Maybe. For starters, to take it somewhere no one can find it. I haven't decided." At least Arthur's being honest.

"It's not your decision to make,” Merlin says anyway. "What does it look like?"

"Depends on the creature summoned. I've been told that the last time, it had the form of a large wooden box."

Merlin keeps eyeing Arthur as he talks. Something is wrong with him. Did the healing spell not work? But the cut had closed up. He taps his comm. “E, we need information.”

“'E' is for 'Elena', I presume?” Arthur asks.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Merlin grumbles.

“Hi, Elena,” Arthur whispers.

Merlin rolls his eyes, although he’s becoming increasingly worried about Arthur’s condition. He’s too ashen and stays too still, his chest moving rapidly up and down.

“Well, look who’s back. M, sweetheart," Elena says in a saccharine, completely inappropriate tone. "Where the fuck have you been? Now keep in mind, I am a professional and will help you, but it doesn’t mean I won’t rip your bollocks out, one by one, when I see you next time.”

“I only have two,” Merlin informs her, for educational purposes.

“You’re looking at having none,” Elena deadpans. “What do you need?”

“Help to retrieve an artifact called the Portal. Could be in the form of a wooden box. Possibly. Arthur says it’s something important, and MI6 is interested in it.”

“Arthur? _Our_ Arthur?”

“Never mind that,” Merlin snaps. “Now, the _Portal._ What does it look like and where would we find it? Check with Gaius. I didn’t see it listed in the details of the mission. It’s possible that Monmouth acquired it through some other channels. E, no matter what, don't let him call the police or come here yet. Not until we resolve the situation.” He glances at Arthur again, whose condition seems to be deteriorating further -- his face and neck seem to be swelling up, some color returning to his skin, but it’s uneven, blotchy, and it doesn’t look like a good sign.

"Merlin,” Gwaine says, catching Merlin’s eyes. “I think you guys should go." He bends down to pick up one of the guns on the ground. "I'll hold the fort."

Merlin purses his lips, thinking, then says into the comm, "E, report to Morgana and send backup here. A lot of it."

"Done. And on its way already. Less than two minutes."

"Gwaine...” he says next.

Gwaine hears something in Merlin's voice and perks up. “Yes, sir?”

“Oh, I’m a sir, now? The honour. I think you’ll have to take over the assignment and retrieve the artifact on your own this time. There's also the book, still somewhere in the library. Are you up for the task?”

Gwaine’s eyes dart to Arthur, brows pulling together. “All right there, Arthur? Will you take care of Merlin for me?”

“Of course I will,” Arthur mumbles, trying to turn up his uncooperating, puffed up lips.

Gwaine looks back at Merlin. “Affirmative to retrieve the artifacts on my own.” He brings his hand to his ear. “E, you heard the man.”

Merlin’s not done yet. “E, you keep an ear on Gwaine and I’ll try to sneak out of here with Arthur. I'm going off the grid.”

“Understood,” Elena comments after a pause to process the implication of Merlin’s statement. “I have a feeling there’s quite a story, and I want to know every detail.”

“That makes two of us. Over.”

Merlin taps off and removes his comm. Handing it to Gwaine, he turns back to Arthur, and as if on cue, Arthur sinks to the side and vomits.

 

~LDN~

 

By the time they make it to the car, Arthur’s already thrown up twice more, and Merlin is practically carrying him. Merlin doesn’t want to think about his own weakening state after using several more spells to shield and glamour both of them, so that to the unsuspecting (or even the suspecting) eye they don’t look like anything but two piss-drunk, stumbling blokes.

He tried several other spells already to help Arthur, but nothing worked. Bloody healing spells are worthless, especially when Merlin’s in a panic and it really _matters._

When Arthur vomits yet again by the kerb next to their car, Merlin doesn’t care anymore who sees them. All that plays in his head are Morgana’s words, “You’re killing your partner, agent. Give me the _spell_ ,” which couldn’t be more prophetic, and the phrases of healing spells. He was going to use every single incantation he's ever learned on Arthur until he found the one that worked, but after trying several of them, he realises that he can’t afford just to throw them around randomly -- every spell demands energy, too much of it, and at this rate, he’ll exhaust himself and his magic before he finds the right one.

Merlin has to make further sacrifices to preserve all the strength he can, so he drops their glamour. In Arthur’s case, it doesn’t matter anymore -- his face became unrecognisable even without it -- it’s swollen so much, his eyes turned into slits and he can barely move his lips.

At this point, it’s evident that Arthur’s condition has nothing to do with the bullet scratch itself or Merlin’s butchered the healing spell to seal it, and everything to do with what was _in_ that bullet. Lowering Arthur onto the back seat, he climbs inside with him, shushing and murmuring soothing words to his moaning partner, who can’t even form words anymore, and lifts his shirt again.

The side of Arthur’s ribcage where the bullet grazed his skin is now black in color and covered in blisters.

“Bloody monsters,” Merlin swears, realising what it means. “They poisoned the bloody bullets, Arthur.”

Merlin wishes he could warn Gwaine, but he can’t do that anymore. Without his comm and with his mobile broken up in pieces and dissolved with magic, he has no other communication. He just hopes Gwaine gets a chance to pay the fuckers back in the same kind. It’s wrong, he knows it, but he can’t help a fleeting regret about not killing the secret agents on the spot with his magic in the tunnel, like they deserved.

Arthur starts wheezing, his throat closing up. Merlin can feel his suffering so acutely, it’s like it’s happening to him too and he’s losing oxygen himself.

“Hang on, Arthur, please hang on,” he gasps and closes his eyes. He needs one spell -- just one that works. And he needs to put all he has into it, sensing with desperation that they’re out of time. If he makes a mistake again, the poison will finish the job and Arthur will suffocate.

He places his hands on Arthur’s side where he was wounded, takes a deep breath, and cants what’s been said to be _the most_ powerful healing spell ever used. The words come deep from within Merlin, in a voice even he doesn’t recognise, racking his body, scorching his throat on the way out, and igniting him with magic of such power, it feels like he’s going to explode into pieces by the time he finishes the last word. “ _Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ!_ ”

Merlin sees it -- his magic -- earnest, generous, and golden, just like his Arthur, like it was always meant only for him, rush from under his palms and fingers and charge into the Arthur’s side, currents of light running under his skin as it spreads up and around. When it reaches Arthur’s chest and throat, Arthur bucks up, making a loud gasping sound, inhaling sharply, greedily, and then slumps motionless under Merlin’s hands.

For a few moments, Merlin can’t hear Arthur breathe anymore and thinks this is it -- he’s failed. But then he can see the swelling slowly receding from Arthur’s face, and that the skin covering his ribs where Merlin still has his hands pressed to it is no longer morbidly black, blisters disappearing.

Merlin lowers his ear to Arthur’s chest and he hears it -- the weak but present _thump-thump-thump_ of his heart.

Merlin huffs a laugh in enormous relief and passes out with his head still on Arthur’s chest, and his arms protectively wrapped around him.

 

~LDN~

 

Merlin wakes up, groggy, bleary-eyed, and still in the car next to Arthur. Except this time, they are sitting slumped against each other, and the back seat is a lot roomier. The car is moving. Arthur’s head is on Merlin’s shoulder and his chest rising up and down quietly and steadily. His hand pushed between Merlin’s legs, fingers curled around his thigh proprietarily, and his foot is hooked over Merlin’s, hogging his space like he always does in his sleep. The sight of Arthur like this fills Merlin with such immense affection, he has to blink a few times to let the feeling pass.

He raises his head, squinting at the driver.

“Leon?” he croaks. “What are you…”

“It’s fine, Merlin. You and Arthur are safe. Rest,” Leon says without turning his head.

“Where are we going?” Merlin finds the strength he doesn’t have to ask.

“Safehouse. You’ll have to lay low for a while.”

Merlin sits straighter. “Who else knows?”

“No one,” Leon answers immediately. “And I’ll keep it that way.”

Merlin doesn’t know Leon well enough to trust him personally, but Arthur values him, and as Morgana advised him before, he decides to listen to his gut, like he listened to his magic earlier, and, pressing his lips to the top of Arthur’s hair, he falls back asleep.

 

 ****

All Merlin can tell about the house is that it’s an old bungalow sitting on the top of the hill with the view of the sea and no other residences around them -- and this is probably all he's meant to know. The furnishings inside are severely outdated; there’s no telly or microwave, not even a radio, but there are shelves upon shelves with books. It has an old but working refrigerator and running water, and everything around the house seems to be cared for. The kitchen is fully stocked, although the food is either canned or dry. 

A tall grandfather clock in the living room has an elaborate striking sequence that announces the time every hour, and that’s how, inadvertently, Merlin’s calculated that they’ve already been here for at least three days.

He wishes he could speak to his team and find out if Gwaine made out of the tunnel unharmed and free, cursing his hasty decision to get rid of all means of communication that night. At some point soon, he’ll have to figure something out so that he can get in touch with his team and make sure they’re all right.

He doesn’t know how soon Leon left after dropping them off. He doesn’t remember how he made it from the car into the house or to bed, sans his bloody shirt. Maybe he was transported while being dead to the world, which is the only likely explanation.

All he and Arthur have been doing here for these past three days is sleeping, eating whatever doesn't require cooking, and for the rest of the time, they kind of vacillate around each other without actually being together, neither of them showing any interest in doing a lot of talking.

More than once, Merlin has woken up to Arthur lying in bed next to him, watching Merlin sleep. It didn’t seem strange or creepy, probably because Merlin has done the same (glad to witness a slow return of some colour to Arthur's face), and if Arthur has felt what Merlin felt during those moments, then Merlin understands why Arthur’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he looks at Merlin and why his hand twitches but doesn’t reach out to touch Merlin anymore. 

It feels like they’re about to face the end of something Merlin isn’t ready to let go yet -- is very certain he doesn’t want to -- and so he doesn’t ask what’s wrong or initiate _the_ conversation. As if the heaviness of all the unspoken words and still-uncovered secrets is not there in the room with them every breathing moment, and if he ignores it for long enough, it will disappear on its own. Of course, life never works that way.

No, surely, they talk about things: they ask each other how they’re feeling, and what the other one wants for lunch (canned beans, canned sliced bacon, and canned sponge pudding?) or who will take a shower first, since there seems to be a limited supply of hot water. Not surprisingly, in the house that seems to be prepared for any sort of guests, they both find a change of very last-season but clean clothes that are close enough to their sizes.

On the morning of day four, Merlin wakes up first, dresses (the trainers are too small, and, glancing at sleeping Arthur, he reluctantly magics them to fit, which zaps him of most of his energy again) and leaves the house for a while. He finds his way down to a small beach and sits there forever with his fingers buried in the sand and his eyes closed, listening to seagulls squealing in the distance and to the sea breathing heavily at his feet, the waves rolling, and rolling and rolling.

The sun’s already going down when he finally opens his eyes, catching sight of the yellow half-disk submerging behind the murky horizon, and, with a deep inhale and exhale, he can finally say that his magic is back. Not full force yet, but already strong enough to light a small campfire to warm up the chilled evening air surrounding him without requiring much effort.

When he walks back into the house, Arthur is sitting by the window in the living room, with a book opened to the introduction, and by the stiffness of his walk when he gets up, Merlin can tell he’s been sitting there for awhile.

In the kitchen, Merlin watches Arthur move around, gathering ingredients and fixing supper for them, and it occurs to him that the precision in everything Arthur does is not coming from his rank at the Bureau -- most likely, he served in the military forces before joining his father's organisation. Financial advisors don't move like they have only 5 steps to complete the task or else. Financial advisors sit on their arses all day long and are not as exceptionally-fit as Arthur Pendragon. Merlin's been so blind.

They eat in almost crippling silence, occasionally glancing at each other, only once or twice asking to pass the salt or napkins. Merlin, already on edge, escapes from the table first and goes on to explore the house.

There are black and white pictures on the walls throughout the house, but unlike the ones in Arthur’s flat, they’re not generic landscapes. They portray several generations of the same family that starts large, with toddlers sitting on the laps of adults; then, the same adults with the same kids but older, standing next to the adults, posing with pensively-serious expressions. And then again, later -- as a family in various sitting and standing poses, kids turned into spotty teenagers with long, bored faces. With each picture, there are fewer and fewer people in the shot, and the one he finds on the mantel in the living room has just two people left: a young man and a woman standing in front of a car, and it seems to be the last one taken chronologically. Judging by their outfits and the model of the car, the picture is about 30 years old.

None of these people look familiar to Merlin.

“Do you know who this house belongs to?” he asks Arthur, who’s back to his seat by the window with his book.

Arthur looks a lot better now, healthier, his face filling up again, whereas just two days ago he looked like he’d lost a stone.

Arthur glances up at him.

“Yes, it belonged to my mother’s great-uncle,” he says.

Merlin repeats it in his head. “So, your great-great-uncle?”

Arthur shrugs. “I guess.”

“And all these people…” Merlin waves over the pictures. “Are they all your relatives?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Technically?”

“I’ve never met anyone on my mother’s side, except for my uncle,” Arthur responds reluctantly.

"Is your mum in any of those pictures?"

"Some."

"Is that her?" Merlin guesses, picking up the picture from the mantel. The woman smiling timidly in the picture is blonde, like Arthur, and when he looks closer, he sees she has Arthur's eyes and mouth.

Arthur's gaze slides from Merlin's face to the picture in his hand. "Yes," he says slowly. "It's the last picture of her that exists. My father wasn't keen on saving any after she died."

It's not that difficult to come to the conclusion that if Arthur makes house arrangements now, it most likely means all other relatives are no longer living.

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Merlin." Arthur turns back to his book.

Merlin doesn’t want to pry further. Or, yes, he does want to, but it’s obvious that Arthur isn't too keen about discussing his family. Merlin tries to ignore the unpleasant feeling growing in his stomach that not only is Arthur uncomfortable sharing anything personal with Merlin, Arthur has been distant to the point of being cold. The only time Merlin remembers him this way is when he met him at the bar in Vegas. He knows why now, of course -- Arthur had failed to retrieve the Triskelion and was very upset.  By some odd stroke of fate, he’d ended up at the same place as Merlin.

This is something that’s been bothering him for such a long time, actually, that Merlin decides to broach the subject.

He sits down on the opposite side of the table, facing Arthur.

“I’ve always wanted to ask,” he starts. “Or tell you something.”

Arthur studies Merlin’s sombre face and puts the book down. “Okay.”

“That night in Vegas…” Merlin bites his lip, trying to form the question so it doesn’t sound too offensive in case he’s wrong. “Was that a coincidence that we met at that bar?” Basically, Merlin wants to know if their hook-up had been planned all along.

Arthur’s brows, forming a quizzical angle, are a clear enough answer. His shoulders drop as he sighs. “Merlin. It's up to you if you want to believe me, but that evening, I just felt like going somewhere, where I could…” He chews on the side of his cheek. “Could be myself."

"Yourself?"

"Yeah... I’d come out to my father about 6 months before that and…" Arthur raises his eyes to meet Merlin's. "And it didn’t go well. I kept trying to show him that no matter who I took to bed, as his son and as an officer, I was still the same. But...” He shakes his head.

That explains a few things to Merlin: the suddenly bold missions, bravado with the coins, goading. The timing was right. Arthur was showing off, but not to prove something to the Agency -- to his father and possibly to himself.

Merlin clears his throat, not sure what to say.

Arthur's fingers smooth the pages of the book. “Normally, I’m a lot more… “ he shrugs, “... _reserved_. I don’t know what came over me that night. And I certainly wasn't planning on moving in or playing house with someone afterwards.”

Merlin drops his eyes, so Arthur doesn’t see how much those words upset him. They shouldn’t, since Merlin could have said the same three months ago, but they bother him today.

“So, I picked the most popular gay club in the city and went there.” Arthur smiles. “I didn't expect to see you slurping up tequila off some bloke’s six-pack.”

Merlin huffs. “Yeah…”

“I didn’t expect to wish quite viciously to be in the place of that bloke.”

Merlin stops smiling.

"I wanted to hurt him,” Arthur says. “I wanted to rip him limb to limb for even looking at you the way he did. It was like someone put a spell on me."

They meet each other's eyes, and Arthur frowns.

"Merlin--"

Merlin already knows what Arthur is about to ask, and he wants to tell him before Arthur does that. “About that… Arthur--”

Arthur's frown deepens. “What?”

“The reason you felt… the way you felt that evening…”

No wait. That doesn’t sound right. _Arthur didn’t know what came over him, he said. Normally reserved…_ Maybe it hadn’t been Merlin's fault all along.

He leans forward, staring at Arthur. “I need to ask you something first. You saw Julius Borden that evening, didn’t you? Asked him about the artifact? You were after it, correct?”

Arthur pauses before answering, with a considering gaze on Merlin. “Yes. I was. I was tracking him. In fact, I was able to create a situation after the convention and almost had him, but then lost him in the crowd. I caught up with him later, in the lift on his way down from the Tower, but he never admitted to having the artifact.”

“Yeah, slippery arse,” Merlin agrees, not volunteering the information about the results of his own mission. The Bureau knows they have the piece of Triskelion anyway, since the Agency had to report it. “Did Borden touch you?”

Arthur blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Was there any physical contact between you? Skin to skin?”

“Merlin, please tell me you don’t mean what I think you mean,” Arthur says, his eyes becoming slits, darkened blue behind them.

“No, no,” Merlin says. “Not what I mean. Did he, perhaps, try to place a hand on your hand, touch your wrist? Or anything like that?”

Arthur thinks about it and nods. “Yeah. My elbow. I had short sleeves. He moved towards me suddenly and grabbed me. I didn't expect that.”

"Fuck."

“Merlin, what’s wrong?”

“I assume the Bureau doesn’t have a protocol for testing their officers after each mission?”

Arthur looks irritated again. “No, can you believe it? But just so you know, I’m clean.”

Merlin grimaces. “Again, that’s not what I mean. Are you checked for being exposed to foreign substances? Does the Bureau know how to find out whether you may have been affected by magic somehow? Potions, enchantments, spells?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No. But... I mean, I suppose it’s not a bad idea.”

“I bet you’ve no equipment for that.”

Arthur doesn’t respond.

“Fine, you don’t have to answer that.” Merlin pauses. “How was your elbow after that? How did you feel?”

Arthur shrugs. “Itchy,” he admits. “I actually was a bit out of sorts, now that you’ve asked, but I thought maybe it was an allergy to something. And I was jetlagged.”

“Right,” Merlin says.

Arthur shifts in his chair. “Are you saying it wasn’t that?”

Merlin braces himself. “Yes, I am. I believe Borden dosed you with a serum. You were enchanted and it made you… want things. Things you normally wouldn’t admit that you want.”

They look at each other for an incredibly heavy, long moment.

“And you know that how?” Arthur asks.

Merlin doesn’t answer, just stares at him, and Arthur nods.

“I see.” He rises to his feet and turns to face the window, away from Merlin. “The serum, then. Enchanted.”

“Arthur--”

“Skin to skin? Close physical contact?” Arthur asks, not listening, still staring through the window. “So, you and I... Did I make you want things, too?”

“I was affected as well, but not through you," Merlin admits. "I met Borden on my own that evening. So…”

Arthur nods. “I understand.” He narrows his eyes at something ahead of him, staying completely still, and then turns sharply to Merlin. “Thank you for telling me. I know you would’ve done it sooner if there was a choice.”

Merlin’s speechless again.

Arthur takes a sharp breath. “Listen, Merlin. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay here.”

Merlin opens his mouth slowly. “Why?”

“My father wanted me to sell this place, but I didn't. I just changed the name on the deed. But if he puts his mind to it, he can still find out. I know he’s made some… unorthodox choices for the Bureau’s sake. And I know he’s upset with me for not supporting him, but I’m still his son. He’ll give me time before I come back to sort things out, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here for long.”

Merlin tries to comprehend what Arthur is saying, finally succeeding. “You want me to leave?”

Arthur lowers his eyes. “I think you should. But keep a very low profile for a while.”

“What about you?”

“Uther won’t touch me, and he'll resolve it with MI6, I'm sure. Leon would tell me if something changes, but so far, my father's been indicating that he wants me to heal. Which doesn’t mean he’d be happy to know you’re hiding with me.”

“Ah. So, your father doesn’t know about us,” Merlin says.

“He knows that I…” Arthur struggles with words. “No, not about you. Or Vegas. He had his hand in creating my latest cover, and even made up a girl named Mithian as my fiancé, which I refused to keep, so she's my 'ex' now.” Arthur makes air-quotes. "I guess that's his way of coping with who I am, but I won't go back in the closet, Merlin; he knows that part."

“Right.”

“Which,” Arthur continues, as if he doesn’t hear Merlin or the disappointment in his voice, “brings me to the next point. I want you to know that you have no obligations to me. I understand the circumstances now and that our differences are too big.”

 _Sure, too big. Well put, Arthur,_ Merlin thinks. _And also, fuck you._

“That’s… thoughtful,” he says instead.

“I will speak with Morgana,” Arthur adds, still avoiding Merlin’s eyes.

“Right, Morgana.” Merlin remembers. “Your sister. I suppose you wouldn’t want her wrath, either.”

Merlin wonders if Morgana would throw him out of the Agency, just like Arthur’s doing right now. It's obvious that she knew about Merlin and Arthur all along, and to save her brother, she kept Merlin close. Didn’t she insist that he learn the healing spells? She had _seen_ them in her visions. She needed them to have a relationship for her brother to survive.

A relationship that turned out to be nothing but a, _Fuck you, Dad, I can do what I want,_ on Arthur’s part.

Yet, even now, Merlin finds that he can’t regret following his own heart or saving Arthur. He's glad he could, even if he’s been thoroughly used.

“She’s not bad, Merlin. She won’t be happy with either of us after this,” Arthur says. “My sister’s convinced there’s some destiny involved. You know -- all that witchy stuff of hers.”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I know? I have magic,” Merlin says bitterly. “So, I must know what’s on your sister’s evil mind.”

“No, that's--” Arthur falters. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Merlin sighs, closing his eyes. “It’s fine, Arthur. I get it.” He opens his eyes, catching a look on Arthur’s face he doesn’t understand. Disappointment? Remorse? Annoyance? Something that disappears right away. “At least tell me where we are right now, and how to get out of here,” he says.

That same expression flits across Arthur’s face again. “I wasn’t going to kick you out, Merlin. I’ll call Leon, and he’ll pick you up. He’ll drive you wherever you want.”

“Call?” Merlin can’t believe his ears. “You have a phone?”

“My mobile. Why?”

“You idiot!” Merlin hisses, jumping to his feet. “Give it to me!”

“It’s not traceable, Merlin. It’s a special device. You think I’m stupid?” Arthur asks.

 _No, I am,_ Merlin wants to say. _I have been such a fool._

“No, of course. May I make a phone call, then?” he asks instead.

Arthur’s mobile is that same old device Merlin saw for the first time in Vegas, except now it’s three months older, which makes it pretty much ancient. Now he understands why Arthur would never part with it and wouldn’t agree to replace it.

“Who would you call?” Arthur asks, not yet handing it over.

Merlin supposes it’s fair in a professional sense, considering he’s already overstayed his welcome and is asking to use a Bureau’s device to call his teammate agent. The irony.

“To arrange my pick-up. Since you don't want to disclose this location, I think it’s best if Leon contacts Gwaine and arranges it with him. I just need to tell Gwaine to let Leon know where to drop me off.”

Arthur’s dark expression betrays how much he doesn’t like that idea. Merlin sighs. “Look, Arthur. I don’t need you or Leon, or someone else from the Bureau taking care of me. No, let me rephrase it -- it’s not the Bureau’s business where I go once I leave this place.” When Arthur tries to say something, Merlin interrupts him, “And it’s not up to you. It’s like you said -- we’re not obligated to each other. I certainly don't want you to be. I swear not to seek you out after this, and you must swear the same. Do I have your word?”

 _Dissolution_ is the word that comes to Merlin’s mind. Complete and total dissolution. What a terrible, terrible word. 

Arthur closes the book and turns away to place it back on the bookshelf. “Of course, Merlin. You have my word.” He turns around, his face unreadable. “Give me Gwaine’s number and I’ll contact Leon.”

“Give me the mobile so I can talk to Gwaine first,” Merlin counters.

"You don't trust me," Arthur says, his tone icy, reminding Merlin of Morgana. Arthur's never talked to him in such a tone before.

Merlin juts his chin. "Why should I? You're going back to work at the place that almost threw your life away."

"My father didn't know I'd be at the museum!"

"Your father knew there would be consequences when he decided to team up with MI6. And what about Morgana? How does it even work among the three of you?"

"It might look sometimes like we can’t stand each other, but it’s not true. My sister has principles I respect and she’s my _family_. Unfortunately, she could never accept my father’s views, and he never forgave her for choosing a different path and going to work for the Agency."

"I wonder what her alternative was. Go work for the Bureau and help to systematically destroy the very essence of who she is? You chose the Bureau, and look where you’ve ended up."

"My father is not perfect. None of us are," Arthur says, voice hollow. “He has his reasons to hate magic, but he doesn’t hate Morgana.”

Merlin doesn’t ask about Arthur’s reasons, too afraid the answer will destroy him completely.

"That’s not my business," he says, not looking at Arthur. "Now, I need to make that call." He extends his hand and Arthur gives him the mobile.

 

~UKN~

 

To Merlin's relief, Gwaine picks up. He doesn’t ask a lot of questions, nor does he offer a lot of information, immediately catching on to the situation when Merlin starts talking.

“I'll get a call. Got it,” he grunts. “You -- okay?”

“I am,” Merlin answers. “You?”  

“Made it count.”

Merlin knows Gwaine means the night at the museum. He hopes he’d wreaked havoc there that deserves its own film. 

“Good,” he says. “And the artifacts?”

“Safe.”

Merlin closes his eyes. “Good. Over.”

Later that night, Arthur makes his bed on the couch in the living room and the message can’t be more clear. Merlin wants to find it in him to be angry or resentful towards Arthur -- to prove how little it matters to him anymore and how he’s above all the drama of the broken-up relationship that wasn’t even real. He’s a fucking agent, he’s a sorcerer and proud of it, and he now knows what he’s capable of.

Yet, there’s no anger. He just feels lost, and so is his magic. Yes, it’s there and very present, but something is off. It feels as if there’s a link missing that makes it and Merlin one piece; it’s as if Merlin is leaking magic, and it's going nowhere. It reminds Merlin of something he’s already felt before -- this kind of a broken, pulled-apart magic. It scares him.

 

~UKN~

 

“Leon’s outside, waiting,” Arthur tells Merlin through the bathroom door.

“I’ll be right out,” Merlin answers, like everything’s normal, and there’s nothing out of routine in their conversation.

Merlin checks himself in the mirror, deciding he looks casual enough with his shower-wet hair slicked back, and almost five-day scruff on his cheeks he’s opted to leave alone for now. It covers the hollowness behind it and cuts and bruises he’s had no energy to spell away.

He puts on his borrowed clothes, having no use for the tailored tux and his dressy shoes, figuring that no one will miss a pair of trousers, a polo shirt, and the trainers, stretched to fit his size.

Arthur isn’t in the bedroom adjacent to the loo when Merlin walks out, and he is not in the living room. The house is almost artificially quiet. Merlin doesn’t know where Arthur is, probably choosing not to waste any more time on his ex-lover and useless good-byes. It’s not over until it’s truly over, so Arthur’s probably making sure that Merlin gets that it truly is.

Merlin glances around once more: at the neatly folded blanket on the couch with the pillow on top, at the book Arthur was reading, back on the table -- Merlin had never learned the title of it. At the picture of Arthur’s mum on the mantel. Arthur couldn’t let this house go; Merlin doesn’t have that luxury. He can’t let go of something he never had in the first place.

Time to leave, so he goes to the door.

“Merlin.”

Somehow, Arthur’s right behind him. Merlin doesn’t know how he didn’t hear him walking up; he stiffens but doesn’t turn around to face Arthur. He doesn’t think he can. 

“Merlin,” Arthur repeats, voice low, strained.

This time, Merlin _feels_ him stepping so close, his magic goes haywire, his hairs standing at the back of his neck.

Arthur’s arms box Merlin in against the door, his breath warm right above Merlin’s collar, and it takes everything in Merlin not to arch into Arthur’s radiating-heat body.

“Do you know when I first noticed you, baby?” Arthur murmurs against Merlin’s neck, and it makes him shiver and hold his breath.

He can’t believe this is happening, but it is -- Arthur kisses him softly right above the collar of his shirt. So softly, Merlin can barely feel it, but he knows what he feels, and his magic knows. It responds violently, trying to practically claw out of Merlin's skin. He doesn't let it, no way; gritting his teeth, he buckles it down to stop from pouncing on Arthur.

“You were walking through the airport in Vegas, taller than everyone else, striding with your long legs, your back perfectly straight. You have the posture of a dancer, Merlin. You exude strength. I know now you don’t realise it, but you steal everyone's attention whenever you walk into a room.”

Merlin exhales, his eyes screwed shut, his fingers curling into fists, unable to talk.

Arthur plants another soft kiss on him behind the jaw, pressing himself into Merlin, and Merlin feels a ripple going through Arthur at the contact. His ex-partner’s entire body shakes and stills with Arthur sucking in a breath through his nose, as if trying to calm himself down. God, this is unbearable.

“I’ve seen beautiful men. I’ve been attracted to beautiful men before,” Arthur says, hoarse, his feet bracketing Merlin’s feet, and Merlin feels him everywhere, trembling with tension that’s seeping into already-on-edge Merlin. This is insane; what is Arthur doing?

“But this wasn’t that. I’ve never been so attracted to a perfect curl on the nape of someone’s neck. Your neck, Merlin. I _had to_ follow you then.” He kisses Merlin again, this time nosing his hair, inhaling him reverently. “I will never regret that I did,” he whispers, sounding raw and brittle, voice breaking at the end, and briefly presses his forehead against Merlin’s nape.

Merlin needs a moment to swallow a sob. When he can breathe again without gasping, he turns around to… he doesn’t know what he thought he was going to do, but Arthur’s already gone, and then he hears a door slam shut somewhere in the house.

This time, there's no mistaking it -- it's definitely over between them.

 

~UKN~

 

Merely 10 minutes after they drive off, leaving Arthur’s house behind, Leon slows down and stops completely. They’re still on the small serpentine road that won’t fit more than one car, with the sea on one side and the hill on the other, so obviously, they’re not lost.

“This is it, Merlin,” Leon says, pulling the brake clutch.

“What’s going on?” Merlin asks, checking around for any danger and sensing none.

“Your next ride is down the hill.” Leon nods ahead. “Gwaine is waiting for you.”

Merlin thinks for a beat. “And you?”

Leon smiles at Merlin into the rear-view mirror. “I’m going back.”

That makes sense, and that’s what Merlin already knows to expect from Leon -- complete loyalty to Arthur. Knowing that Arthur has someone to rely on at this time makes Merlin feel infinitesimally better.

“Has Gwaine been around?” he asks as it occurs to him that they might not have been as alone all this time as he thought they were.

Leon huffs out a snort. “Yeah, he tracked me down on the second day. Funny bloke.”

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t know why I even keep him on the team.”

“I do,” Leon says, his eyes turning serious in the mirror. “You have a great team, Merlin.”

Merlin appreciates the compliment, even if it comes from someone whom he suspects has played more than a small role in Merlin failing so many missions lately. Still, he can’t hold it against him. Merlin can’t be upset with someone who does their job well.

“Right,” he says and opens the car door. He pauses before getting out. “Make sure he’s safe, Leon, would you?”

They both know who Merlin’s talking about, and Leon nods. “Will do.”

Merlin clasps Leon’s shoulder briefly and leaves.

He spots Gwaine bouncing around the waiting car as soon as he walks down the hill.

“Here comes trouble,” Gwaine greets him.

“What happened to ‘daisy’?” Merlin asks.

“You’ve been demoted.” Gwaine pulls him into a tight hug.

“How will I ever survive such terrible news,” Merlin mutters, but he’s glad, so glad to see his friend, he better not start tearing up -- Gwaine would never let him live that down. He clears his throat and steps back to look at him. “Are you all right?”

“In perfect health, mate. You? You look banged up."

“It's nothing. Where’s Elena?”

“We’ll see her soon.”

They get in the car and Merlin doesn’t look back once.

He has a lot to think about and a lot to do when they return home. The thing he misses the most right now is his mobile, and he’s already marking in his head what he wants in his next device and how to make it better than the version he had before.

“Where are we going?” he asks later, reading the sign “Welcome to Port Dover” they’re passing.

“I'm taking you to Disneyland in Paris, daisy,” Gwaine replies.

“Don’t make me kick your arse, Gwaine,” Merlin says. “Why a boat?"

Gwaine hums noncommittally.

"Am I leaving the country?” Merlin presses.

“I’ll explain later,” Gwaine says.

“Explain now.”

Gwaine navigates the car through a gate with a sign, marked “Calais 5” and onto a large ferry boat and parks in the spot indicated by the ferry worker on the lower deck.

“El’s waiting for us,” Gwaine says, exiting the car, and Merlin has no choice but to follow his teammate to the ferry’s passenger lifts.

He considers throwing a fit but doesn’t see it achieving anything. He can count on one hand the situations when Gwaine preferred silence to making another joke. This is one of those situations.

Elena is sitting in the corner booth when they walk into a lounge area of the boat. There’s a small travel bag next to her on the seat and she smiles when she sees them. As soon as Merlin slides into the booth, she pushes a new mobile to him across the table. With an accepting nod, he takes it from there to access and configure the device according to the protocol. He then checks for his messages and the only one he finds interesting is from Mordred, who’s waxing poetic about yet another artifact. Merlin places it into the “Discovery List” folder in his email to deal with later.

“So,” he says when that’s done, and looks up at his teammates.

“We’re leaving the country for a while,” Elena says.

“That’s bloody obvious. For how long and why?”

“Until it settles. Morgana’s orders,” Gwaine says and yawns. 

“Did something happen?”

Both Elena and Gwaine look at him like he’s daft.

“Do you remember the status of the situation when you and Arthur left?” Elena asks.

“Was anyone down?” Merlin asks Gwaine.

Gwaine shakes his head. “No, unfortunately.”

“ _Luckily_.” Elena purses her lips. “And the wrong people were upset.”

“Okay, fine,” Merlin says, aggravated. “I’ll need a full report on that. But that doesn’t mean I have to run.”

“Don’t be an arse,” Elena says. “It’s not always about you. We all,” she points around the table, “have to leave.” And as if on cue, the boat shudders from the engines being revved up and sets into motion, taking them all to France.

Merlin drops his eyes, feeling appropriately reprimanded. Elena’s right. He can’t seem to break out of the habit of living in his own brain, and often takes his team for granted.

“What does Morgana say?” he asks, fighting the urge to call the Agency and demand to speak to her.

Elena and Gwaine glance at each other.

“Mate,” Gwaine says carefully. “Morgana won’t talk to us since the debrief four days ago. We’re suspended. The entire team.”

“What?” Merlin grabs the mobile, but Elena stops him.

“From active duty, Merlin. Not from the Agency. But we’re the least of her problems right now.”

“But--”

“Merlin, she had to,” Gwaine says. “To shut up…” he glances around, lowering his voice, “...the suits. To stop the waves around us. We had to make ourselves ‘temporarily unavailable’.”

“It won’t last forever, Merlin,” Elena says, squeezing his hand. “She did the right thing. I don’t want to be called into offices, having to explain myself. Morgana’s negotiating with Uther, who’s negotiating with… the other party.”

“How do you know all this?” Merlin asks, trying hard to keep his voice level.

“Gaius. He’s very worried about you, by the way. Are you all right? How are you feeling?”

“I’m brilliant. Never better,” Merlin says through his teeth.

“And you said I was a bad liar,” Elena tells him softly.

Merlin makes a straight face. “So, do we have a destination?”

“Yeah,” Gwaine says. “A capital of chocolate and beer. El’s choice.”

“Oh, they’re also famous for lace,” Elena says dreamily.

“Sure.” Gwaine sprawls in his seat. “I can totally see our Merlin in lace.” He frames his fingers into a square, like a camera, and moves it up and down, looking through it at Merlin with a squinted eye.

“Bugger off, Gwaine,” Merlin mutters, pulling his hand out of Elena’s. “So where is it?”

“Obviously not well-traveled, this bloke.” Gwaine winks at Elena.

Merlin’s really, really tired of this.

He raises his hand to do… something. He doesn’t know yet what he’s going to do, but Gwaine has to shut up. Elena quickly leans for him, catching him by his wrist. "Merlin, please." She holds him firmly. "He'll behave, I promise. Right, Gwaine?" and repeats to a trying to protest Gwaine, with more pressure, “Right, Gwaine?”

Gwaine reluctantly nods, pressing his lips together.

"We're going to Bruges," Elena says.

Merlin shifts with a sigh. "I don't understand you, E. I don’t care what he says about me, but doesn’t it upset you? His constant I’m-sexy-and-I-know-it dance?”

“I honestly don’t mind.” She smiles at Gwaine. “He’s a chronic flirt, I know, but he’s also lovely. He cares about me.”

“Are you sure about that? Are you sure you aren’t just blind to his faults because you decided he’s… what did you call him? _Lovely_. What does that even mean? He’s an arse, E. Look at him!”

Still keeping his mouth shut, Gwaine grunts his disagreement, comically bugging out his eyes, and the overall picture of him isn't very attractive right now, to Merlin’s point.

Elena’s smile slides off. “Oh, Merlin,” she murmurs, understanding and deep sympathy welling up in her big blue eyes. “Did you guys have a fight?”

Gwaine stops making noises and stares at him, waiting for the answer.

Merlin tries to school his expression into something neutral, and even he knows he’s not succeeding. “There was no fight.”

"Mate." Gwaine, incapable of staying quiet for more than 60 seconds -- what a surprise -- kicks him under the table. "Don't lie."

"Don't speak or I'll have your mouth sealed for a month,” Merlin threatens him.

“I’ll shave your bloody pubes while you’re asleep,” Gwaine promises back.

“Do that and see what happens,” Merlin suggests. “And I swear if you blabbered to Leon about my personal life, I’ll be the one leaving you bald.”

With a terrified expression, Gwaine grabs his hair with both his hands and moves it back from his face, out of view.

Of course, Elena snickers. Everything Gwaine does is funny, oh, and also _lovely._ What a lovely bloody chap.

Merlin rolls his eyes, ignoring the tightness in his chest.

“So, tell me, guys,” he says with a sigh. “What did you do while making yourselves ‘temporarily unavailable’? Obviously you left London and watched our house. How did you find it? Did you stalk Leon, too?”

“That wasn’t stalking,” Elena blurts out, making a guilty face.

Merlin narrows his eyes, although truthfully he’s glad none of them were in London during the shitstorm that had apparently started there. “You again?”

“I spoke with Gaius, who knows more than he’s let on about Morgana and Arthur. I mean, he didn’t know about you and Arthur, but he’s known the Pendragon family since before Arthur’s birth. Arthur was actually born in that house.”

 _Oh wow,_ Merlin thinks, _no wonder Arthur couldn’t let the house go._ His mind transports him back to the living room, to the place where he stood just last night by the mantel with the picture in his hand, while Arthur frowned at him. The memory hurts. Remembering Arthur’s despondent face hurts.

“So Gaius told me--” Elena goes on.

“If this is about some big family secret,” Merlin says, resolute to do everything possible to stop the pain, which means he has to stop thinking about Arthur. There’s no other way for him to move on. “I don’t want to know.”

“How do you know there’s a big secret?” Elena asks.

“Morgana is not a Pendragon, has magic, looks nothing like her brother or his mother. Uther hates magic. I’m not daft, Elena.”

“You’re right, there’s some mystery surrounding Arthur’s birth, and Gaius claims magic was involved. Morgana has a different mother, but they grew up together in Uther’s house.”

“What did I just tell you about gossip?” Merlin asks, irritated. “She’s your bloody boss, E, have respect for her privacy.”

“I thought you’d want to know,” Elena says apologetically. “Gaius thought so.”

“Why would I want to know?”

“But you and Arthur--”

“There’s no ‘me and Arthur’,” Merlin interrupts her, raising his voice. “It’s over. I thought that was obvious.”

Gwaine swears under his breath while Elena gasps and claps a hand on her mouth.

Merlin sighs, tired, annoyed. “Look, can we just move on from this topic? Things didn’t work out. Not the end of the world.”

“I always knew he was an arsehole,” Gwaine declares. “Lying son of a Pendragon.”

“Absolutely.” Elena nods vehemently. “I didn’t trust him one bit.”

Merlin thinks about pointing out how they were practically tripping over their feet to meet Arthur Pendragon and collectively salivated over him at the charity event, but decides to let it go and just be thankful that he’s being supported and not barraged with insensitive questions -- for now.

They do leave him alone for the rest of the ride.

They change cars on the way to their destination, although the trip is not very long and Merlin assures them they aren’t being followed. He might be suspended from active duty, but it doesn’t mean his magic is suspended; he’d know if they were being watched.

“Mate.” Gwaine slings his arm over Merlin’s shoulder as they walk to pick up another car. “We fully trust you, but, daisy, let me do my job, yeah?”

Merlin grudgingly nods.

 

Bruges is considered by many a backdrop for a fairy tale, a romantic, inspiring town full of wonder. The place as Merlin sees it through his own eyes is something entirely different. It feels like his magic feels right now -- small, cold, and damp. Merlin isn’t charmed; he’s exhausted, and all he wants to do is crawl into a bed and pass out. Of course, his teammates don’t approve of his plans. They want to set up.

The apartment they’re staying in has three small rooms, one bathroom and a kitchen, and Merlin fully expects Gwaine and Elena to take one of the rooms together. He’s cringing inwardly already as he imagines keeping a pillow on his head at night to avoid unwanted sounds. He could use magic, of course, but that’d be such a waste, considering he hasn’t yet reached his full power, so he’d probably have to endure it like other people do in a case of noisy neighbours having sex behind a paper-thin wall.

That doesn’t happen, however, and instead, Elena claims the biggest room and suggests Merlin and Gwaine make themselves at home in the two others. Merlin never thought he could be as grateful for his teammates as he is right now.

When Elena starts unpacking, her bag appears to defy several laws of physics. At least of this planet, as it seems to be dimensionally transcendental and a lot bigger on the inside. Merlin watches her unload her equipment: a laptop, a docking station, a mouse, a full-size keyboard, two large flat-screen monitors. A tablet. A headset with a microphone. A bloody mug the size of her head that says “I heart London” -- and she immediately goes to make herself a hot tea. 

While waiting for her to return, Merlin's lamenting, “Are you serious? You spent your magic on packing two monitors?”

Back in her room, she calmly begins connecting the cables, while Merlin scoffs at her loudly. “This setup is ridiculous, E.” 

“You won’t be laughing when you need my help next time,” she says, blowing a lock of hair that’s fallen on her face.

“I could’ve made holographic displays for you. This is the 21st century and we have better uses for magic, for fuck’s sake.”

“Merlin Emrys,” Elena tells him absolutely seriously. “You do your fucking job and I’ll fucking do mine. Now shoo.”

Gwaine huffs with laughter. “Say thank you she didn’t pixie-dust you for being an arrogant twat, this time intentionally.”

“She can do that?” Merlin asks.

"Mate, have you been living under a rock? El is a kick-ass sorceress. She’s a pro."

"Yeah, but--"

Merlin tilts back to glance at Elena, who’s now moving around in Gwaine’s room. “E, no!” he yells, seeing what she’s doing. “You absolutely do not use a local network to connect to the Agency's grid!”

“Do not insult my intelligence,” Elena says, eyes sparkling with magic, making it clear that she can and will use it on Merlin if he doesn’t back the fuck off. “This is for Gwaine’s ‘Call of Duty’ gaming station and for his blogging. He has to stay on top of his form and out of my face when I’m working.” And with that, she pulls an absolute monster of a desktop computer out of her pixie-size bag.

Gwaine’s whoop of joy is so loud, Merlin almost jumps out of his skin.

And there they go.

Of course.

“I think I’m gonna go,” Merlin mumbles, unable to watch the two lovebirds, who start making out and, judging by the moans, will probably go at it for at least an hour.

Gwaine and Elena immediately break apart.

“Sorry, mate,” he says, looking at Elena like a love-struck girl. “Got carried away. She gets me; what can I say?”

Elena pushes Gwaine in his chest and tries to fix her unrulier-than-normal hair, which is an impossible feat. “Merlin, I’ve packed a few things for you, too.”

This is how Merlin acquires 3 pairs of jeans, 5 t-shirts, pyjama bottoms, workout shorts, several pairs of socks and pants, and a jacket. All from his closet.

“Christ, E. This is great," he marvels, staring at the pile of his clothes from home in disbelief. "I wish you’d also grabbed--”

“Oh, but I did,” she interrupts him and hands him a yoga mat and a flash card. “All your workout programs.”

Merlin considers kissing her, too.

“We have no idea how long we’re going to be away, so I figured, why not make ourselves comfortable?” Elena shrugs with a shy smile.

Merlin tries not to be overwhelmed with gratitude. He smiles. “You did well.”

“Thank you,” Gwaine nudges him. “Say thank you, you bastard.”

“Thank you,” Merlin squeezes out.

“There you go, wasn’t that hard.” Gwaine slaps his arse.

Elena laughs and hugs Merlin. “You’ll be all right, I promise,” she whispers. “Keep hope, Merlin. Don’t give up hope.”

 

 ~BRG~

 

Despite the unfortunate events and, consequentially, the unpleasant and unclear situation they have themselves in, Merlin discovers one positive piece of information. It comes in a word from Gaius, who sends him a somewhat convoluted email, and tells him using a lot of metaphors that in essence mean that even though “you lads are no longer running around”, and “probably busy with other life-fulfilling endeavors”, he has “a little favour to ask”.

Basically, Merlin and his team still have a Triskelion project -- and really, he can’t ask for better news. He needs this to go on, to still feel useful. So maybe somewhere down the road, if he manages to piece the Triskelion back together and repair its magic, maybe his own magic will stop breaking apart, too.

***

 

[TO BE CONTINUED]


End file.
